The Rose's Thorn
by enid.lee
Summary: The difficulties faced by a conflicted young woman thrown into turmoil and a new life. Read about the adventures shared between Charlotte Cousland and her ragtag band of unlikely comrades. Includes several origin stories and morally questionable Warden. Rated M for some adult content. Cousland/Alistair/Zevran
1. Betrothed

**_Disclaimer:_**The Dragon Age universe is the property of Bioware.

* * *

"The time is out of joint. O cursed spite.

That ever I was born to set it right!"

-William Shakespeare.

* * *

Charlotte stood at her window, absorbing the mid-morning sunlight. Her breath was short, heart beating much too quickly as she tried with equal determination to absorb the unthinkable news which had just reached her.

She was betrothed.

Betrothed…. The paper crumpled in her hand, head bending forward as large eyes shut in pain and silent recrimination. It was an unusually temperate day, with rays of light the color of melted butter streaming through trees lush and green with the fresh life of a new season. Grass blew gently in the breeze and horses whinnied from the stables, the nutty scent of freshly lain straw and the horse's feed carrying into her window. Further in the distance, she could hear the distinctive clinks and chimes of weaponry as her father's men prepared for the journey to Ostagar. If she had it her way, Charlotte would be out beside them, tossing a dagger with expert marksmanship into the heart of a darkspawn made of cloth and straw. But she was here, enduring the worse punishment of her life.

An unwanted marriage.

* * *

Charlotte woke up with a gasp, her heart racing unimaginably fast. Realizing where she was, she groaned. She groped around on her bed roll, grasping at the edges of her consciousness, assaulted by the chafe of her thin blanket and the unsettling darkness of her tent. Her dreams were so vivid now; even her worst nightmares seemed real. Shaking, Charlotte wiped away the sweat from her face and struggled to sit up. Mastodon whined in protest as she dislodged him from her side to gain her equilibrium. Once up, Charlotte took a deeper breath, bending over her knees and willing her heart to slow. It was all there, right behind her eyes; the screams, the flashing light, the unforgiving darkness. She could smell the smoke from raging fires; hear Ser Gilmore's shouted orders as he struggled to block the main hall's doors. It was never-ending, a nightmare always plaguing the edges of her mind, only taking control when she could no longer fight it in her sleep. Breathing deeply once more, Charlotte pushed the sounds and images of her worst nightmare away.

Her past would not help her save the world from losing its tomorrow.

* * *

Bryce Cousland had not slept for several days.

He sighed, half-heartedly pushing away a map detailing the three-day journey to Ostagar as he cradled his aching head. This battle had become the center of his existence since the letter from King Cailan arrived, demanding Teyrn Cousland's presence on the field. His men were now almost ready, the travel plans mostly laid out, and his own affairs put to rest should the worst befall him. A fire crackled and burned in the hearth near his desk and Bryce gazed into it with dispassionate interest, too weary to consider further any matters at hand. As far as he was concerned, even if the worst should not happen, his life had been forfeit before Cailan effectively "recruited" him into service. He was not in charge of his life, a man dedicated to a particular service by birth, as unable to deny his king as he was to change the stars.

The study door burst open, exploding Bryce's silent reverie as a small figure stomped into the room, her delicate shoulders hunched for battle. Scrambling after her came a flushed and breathless Grieves, Bryce's guard. The center of the ruckus came to a resolute stop before him as Grieves panted in her wake, gasping some unintelligible lament to his master. Bryce raised a hand of dismissal, his expression displeased but understanding, as he faced the young woman in front of him. With narrowed eyes, he waited for Grieves' winded departure before speaking.

"Daughter," he greeted formally, not bothering to conceal the warning in his tone.

"Father," she sneered, and Bryce was momentarily taken aback.

"Charlotte, what is the matter?" Bryce rose from his desk, concerned to see his youngest child's pale complexion.

"This." She slammed a wrinkled parchment onto the surface of his oversized desk, eyes gleaming in the dim firelight. Regarding her with incomprehension, Bryce grasped the paper between his large fingers and scanned the text, before his own complexion drained and his eyes filled with horror.

Collecting himself, Bryce looked again into his daughter's face, partly apologetic, but most of all calmly grave. "I was going to announce it at the banquet. This was not how you were to learn of this news."

Charlotte was almost spitting with rage. After struggling internally for a few moments, she seemed to compose herself. Finally, she met his eyes. "Well," she murmured darkly, "I know."

The silence between them began to stretch. Bryce was determined to remain calm. He had already anticipated this would be her reaction; it was only normal, considering her predilections and reserve with men. And considering who told her… he was surprised she had not arrived with her daggers in hand. Bryce had not wanted her to marry this way, but her encroaching status as an old maid was not something he could leave her to bear in the uncertainty of war. "Charlotte, you must understand why I had to do this." Bryce raised his hand as an order of silence when Charlotte opened her mouth to complain.

Bryce circled his desk to be closer to her, coming to rest his arm on the mantelpiece of the fireplace. The fire lit into the planes of her lovely face, now strained from feelings of betrayal and anger. "Should I die and Fergus with me, you will be left alone, with legal claim to a coveted Teyrner without guardianship or protection of any kind. I cannot allow that to happen."

Charlotte scowled, "So you would have me marry Arl Bryland's son and sacrifice my life to his?! Why not have Arl Bryland be my guardian? Why not entrust me to mother?"

His tone was firm, "Your mother cannot protect you. Women may be able to own property in Ferelden, but in the chaos of war and a possible Blight, you will not be safe on your own. And Arl Bryland will be in Ostagar – he is no more fit to guard you than I am."

If possible, Charlotte paled even further. "On my own? You trained me! Am I not the most capable warrior you know? I could put the young Bryland on his backside!" Imploring him, she moved closer: "Do not resign me to this, father."

Growling as guilt pierced his heart, Bryce stepped away from the mantel. "You assume much and know little!" He shook his head, trying to dispatch the unease she had stirred in him. He came to a stop with his back turned and took another tack: "I expected more from you."

Hurt but undeterred, Charlotte persisted. "You know I belong in Ostagar with you! I know nothing of being a wife – I'll fail miserably as a noblewoman." Pleading, she stretched out both hands, "I am not meant for this, Father."

"Is that what you fear?" He murmured, turning back to approach her. "That will you will fail me?"

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Charlotte shook her head and whispered, "Yes. And no… I fear a life without love, Father." Determinedly, she looked him square in the eye, "A life even you would not consent to live."

Bryce winced; she referred, of course, to his marriage with Eleanor. She had been, like Charlotte, a prime choice for a marriage, but not his mother's preference. Bryce had truly loved her and refused to accept anyone else, eventually getting what he wanted. But Charlotte was not faced with the same luxury, and he had to think of what was best for her.

"I am sorry, Charlotte," he apologized tiredly. "But my decision is made. You will come to see its benefit, in time."

Charlotted blanched, "No, father, please– "

"It is done." He dismissed her, his face closed, posture tall with righteousness.

His words cut her, bereft and floating in a remorseless new world; her eyes glittered with tears. After a moment's pause, she drew herself up and nodded curtly before sweeping quickly from the room.

Bryce huffed out a breath of relief. Although it pained him as a father to see his daughter feel betrayed, his duties as a man and Teyrn had never been easy. As long as he took care of her and ensured her future, how she felt in this moment would not matter.

He just hoped he would be able to participate in a future where he could make it up to her.

* * *

The roadway was craggy with sharp rocks jutting from its dusty surface. Charlotte's feet ached from too much travel, and her head pounded from lack of sleep. She was almost there. Almost. Soon, the nightmares would stop and she could be at peace again. Everything had been too confusing, too overwhelming to bear. The others wouldn't miss her. They could get along fine on their own. She stumbled and cut her hand as she threw it out to protect herself, cursing and watching the blood well from the large gash. Well, no matter. Soon she would feel nothing. No pain, no creeping sickness in her heart. No exhaustion or fear.

Soon, she would find the stars.

* * *

Charlotte slammed into her chamber and leaned into the heavy wooden door behind her, finally allowing the tears to well over. Mastodon, having escaped a housekeeper's notice, lifted his massive head in askance of his distressed mistress. When she remained at the door, breathless and crying, Mastodon whined softly and went to her, bumping her hand with his nose.

"I know," she murmured, stroking him. "Thank you." He yipped and wagged his tail as somberly as he could manage, giving her small kiss.

Smiling a little, Charlotte went to perch on the bed and stroke his ears, attempting to divert herself from the fissure that had opened in her heart. She sniffed, rubbed her nose, and studied the room. Fleetingly, she felt comforted. Her bedchamber's walls felt like the familiar embrace of a trusted friend. She breathed deeply, willing herself into composure for even that barest of audience.

Truthfully, she wanted to wail, throw herself across the bed – she wanted to lose all control, flailing her limbs and screaming with dismay. But that would only draw unwanted attention and anger her mother and father – not to mention grossly embarrass their noble houseguests, here for the banquet celebrating the men's departure for Ostagar. And if she did wail, who would provide her comfort? She was being given away into a prestigious marriage – probably not as prestigious as she could have acquired, had she been less picky and less quick to dismiss previous offers. But it was not love that brought them together and so her heart ached.

Mastodon yawned loudly, snapping her out of her reverie, his large maw issuing a warbling growl before he licked his chops and resumed guard by the door. No doubt he was awaiting the brisk footsteps of her mother, which could only mean his untimely eviction back into the kennels. Charlotte spared a moment's thought to why she even bothered that fight anymore; Mastodon had been staying with her in the castle since he was a puppy. Perhaps her mother was as bored as she.

Tonight, however, mother would be in her element, issuing commands to the wait staff while effortlessly entertaining her guests. She would command those around her no less effectively than Teyrn Loghain would command his armies in five days' time. Charlotte, on the other hand, would be stuffed into another unnecessary gown, made with silk from Orlais and causing her to feel even more decorous than the roasted birds on the table. They would announce the engagement and she would have to endure an even worse humiliation on top of the usual torture. Furiously she stood and began pacing; how is it that her brother Fergus was allowed to marry for love but not she?! Why was she expected to be whatever they demanded, instead of just herself?

Charlotte slowed as she faced the truth: she had never been what her parents wanted. They praised her swordsmanship and took pride in her skills with a bow at the beginning, but they became impediments when she flew in the face of duty. While her mother had been selecting hand-made gowns for balls and Landsmeets, Charlotte had been racing local stable boys down the street, sparring with her father's knights and losing herself in the crowded squares of Amaranthine. She picked locks and fought with thieves and mercenaries, stumbling into Landsmeets with torn skirts and a dirty face. Eleanor had always been livid; Bryce had been frustrated but secretly proud. It was after that last trip that he promised her never to hand her away in a loveless marriage, relenting in the face of her defiance and finally agreeing to let her live her life on her terms. Now that promise was broken.

Outside, a horse whinnied loudly, calling her to the window. One of father's squires was attempting to drag it away from the stables; it was Beowulf, their largest steed, who would only tolerate Charlotte or her father. He chuffed displeasure and rocked his proud head, resisting the squire's cajoling and tugging of his harness. Charlotte watched his coat glisten in the sun, the way his muscles contracted in enormous shoulders and round, high shanks that were being irritably flicked with a thick black tail. His hooves made deep, hollow sounds in the earth when he stomped and refused to budge.

Abruptly, the horse ceased his resistance and turned his head. His chuffs slowed as he focused his enormous brown eyes on her face; Charlotte's breathing slowed to almost nothing, completely caught in his gaze. Horse and woman stood hypnotized. Though the distance was far and high, Charlotte could _see_ Beowulf's soulful brown eyes. She could feel the wetness around their irises; see the way his pupils dilated as he stared. She could feel the strong beat of his large heart and the silky heat of his coat in the sun. Suspended between them was an understanding - a mutual desire for something that was always just outside their grasp but that they were nonetheless determined to fight for.

Freedom.

The squire grabbed the horse's head and the spell was broken; Charlotte gasped. As Beowulf was tugged away, Charlotte fell back into the room and looked around.

She had to leave. She could not be a caged animal left to whatever use they found for her. There would be a window… a moment of inattention following the banquet… she could take advantage of it, she could run.

Mastodon seemed to follow her line of thought; he had gone very still, sitting up tall and watching her. His stature was alert, but his eyes were calm as he studied her. He didn't necessarily agree, but when he grumbled a little in the back of his throat and lay down, Charlotte knew he could not think of another way.

Alright. Charlotte nodded to herself; she was decided. She ignored her pounding heart and the way her stomach churned with anxiety. Anything was better than this unwanted marriage. She would do it – tonight. She nodded again, sinking onto the bed, trying to give herself confidence. Her father was wrong - and she would not pay for his error in judgment.

Tonight, she would run.

* * *

_Thank you for reading! There is much more to come and Charlotte develops over time. Please send reviews. This is my first experience with the FanFiction community and I am very excited :) _


	2. Betrayed

The banquet seemed to pass in a blur. Chandeliers glittered above tables groaning from the weight of their proffered feast; men and women danced to the sound of a lute in silken finery that swished gracefully over the gray stone floor. The Teyrn and Teyrna sat in the center of hall, side by side at the head of their table, smiling graciously at their guests and laughing gamely in response to a bard's comical performance. Charlotte watched them all impassively, feeling both nothing and the stirrings of real panic at once, as she imagined how hollow the memory of this moment would be tomorrow after she began her journey into the arms of uncertainty.

"Pup," her father's endearment drew her out of herself, the chatter and music slowly growing in volume. "I believe I was promised a dance." He smiled earnestly, causing the corners of his eyes to crinkle.

She stared at his open hand as if she did not know what to do with it. He had made the announcement earlier in the feast and guests had not yet tired of offering their congratulations. Abruptly, she rose from her chair, and her father's forehead wrinkled.

"Thank you, Father" she murmured coolly, "But I do not feel so well for dancing."

Bryce studied her, then stood back and withdrew his hands. "I see. Then you do not wish to dance with me?"

Teyrna Eleanor was watching. She sat just outside of earshot, and with that drunken ninny Lady Landra twittering in her ear, it was impossible even to catch snatches of their conversation. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Charlotte stiffen, then slowly lower herself into a curtsy with her head bowed. Eleanor furrowed her brow; what was her daughter doing?

"My lord," Charlotte responded without emotion, "I beg to be excused."

Although he had foreseen Charlotte's anger, nothing had prepared Bryce for this. At every banquet since she was a little girl, Bryce had taken Charlotte around the floor, first her little feet propped on top of his with her soon packed off to bed, until she had become a young woman with her own place at the table. With Fergus already left for battle and him to follow before dawn the next morning, he would have thought her eager to put her anger aside for the sake of their tradition. He had been wrong.

"Then your prayers shall be answered." Hurt and frustration caused him to speak foolishly. "You are confined to your room for the night. Leave."

Charlotte's head snapped up just as Eleanor chastised him, "Bryce! Such things you say to our daughter!"

Color high on her cheeks, Charlotte stood quickly. "No, mother, there is no need to defend me. I am leaving."

Eleanor stopped by her husband's side as Charlotte hurried from the hall. When she made to follow her, Bryce stopped his wife. "She will not embarrass us further with your absence. Leave her."

Eleanor pulled away, "She is in pain! No matter the sensibility of your decision, I am her mother and I must go to her."

"Then go to her later," Bryce was not to be trifled with. He stared after the space that Charlotte had left behind her. "When she has had some time to reconsider her position and what we have given her."

He went back to his seat and Eleanor hesitated. The dancing around her continued and people were staring. Forcing herself to smile, Eleanor turned back to her guests, ignored the inquisitive looks of Oriana, and returned to Lady Landra – who was helpfully drunk and oblivious to the drama that had unfolded before her.

"Now, my lady, as I was saying…"

Eleanor sighed. It seemed there was a long evening ahead of her.

* * *

The banquet was over. The stars were high in the sky and quiet had fallen over the castle. Charlotte crouched in the corner of the atrium, counting the paces of the guard and waiting for her chance. Mastodon would be ready for her in the kennels. She had packed only her most valuable possessions in a small satchel: a book of language from her grandfather; a compass; her lock-picking tools; all her own gold and silver; some letters from her father and mother; and a locket with the symbol of Andraste on its face. It also contained some food she had stolen earlier on her way to bed, before Nan could put most of it away following the banquet. In her belt she carried her prized collection of daggers, with a long bow and quiver slung across her back. After some consideration, she wore only her pleated jacket and armor. She had wanted to sell some of her gowns for coin, but they were too heavy to carry with her and not practical to wear.

Twenty paces. When the guard passed through the shadow cast by the stone pillar to her right, she could slide past him to a servant's exit. Moonlight shone brightly in stripes over the stone, slicing through the shadows like knives through butter. When the guard turned his toe in the shadow, Charlotte slid stealthily along the wall and away from him. Her heart was pounding; she wanted badly to run. But she must be careful – one guard asking her where she was going would be her undoing. She would have to incapacitate him immediately and, with shaking hands, she didn't think she would be capable.

After what seemed like an hour, Charlotte broke across the foyer leading to the main doors and cut through a small hallway that would take her to the servant's exit. From every wall portraits of her family's heritage called out to her: a painting of her great-great-great grandmother, Teyrna Elethea Cousland, who had stood against Ferelden's first king; her father's shield from when he fought for the rebellion during the Orlesian occupation; a tapestry depicting the defeat of the lycanthrope plague by Mather Cousland during the Black Age. All of them chastising her, screaming at her to go back. She pushed forward still, ignored the blood pounding in her ears, and found her way to the servant's exit.

It was in the larder. Charlotte stopped, hearing only the sound of her heavy breathing. One hair fell loose from her long braid; she tucked it mindlessly back and crouched forward, looking for the small door that led to the outside. The floor of the larder was made of packed earth and she felt her way across it, gingerly lifting sacks of grain and scooting barrels of wine out of her way, peeking for any sign of her escape. Occasionally a sound would startle her and her hands would falter, nearly giving her away with the _thump _of a turnip hitting the ground or the sloshy wobble of a barrel. However, no one came for her and, just when she was about to weep with frustration, her hand closed on an iron latch. A sack was yanked away to reveal a small wooden door, fitted only with an iron loop like an open mouth to release one into the outside.

Charlotte pulled it open and ducked under to slide through. Once outside, she paused for a moment to stare in open-mouthed wonder at the clear night sky. The temperature was nippy, making her tingle and feel gloriously alive, with the stars twinkling like a million diamonds above her. As she turned and marveled at her freedom, she remembered a conversation she had with Oren that afternoon… when she went to say her goodbyes.

He had been praying in the chapel when she found him, his little head bent in concentration as he silently mouthed a plea to the Maker. Charlotte had never had much patience for chapel, but she harbored a quiet and deep respect for Andraste, which was why her mother had gifted her the silver locket bearing her symbol. Oren was more devout – his mother saw to it that this was so – and Charlotte was not surprised to find him there on the eve of his father's ride into war.

She waited until she heard his loud whisper of "Amen."

"Hello Oren, have you spoken with the Maker?"

Oren rose guilelessly, stumbling in enthusiasm. "Auntie Charlotte!"

He barreled into her arms; Charlotte wrapped herself around him and inhaled his sweet, Oren smell, committing it to memory. "Your mother will be pleased."

Oren drew back and wrinkled his nose, "She _insisted_; I had to pray at least three times today!"

"She only worries for your father's safety, but he is a brave and competent man. You should not worry, my dear Oren."

He considered this. After a moment, he raised his furrowed brow. "Auntie Charlotte, what happens when people die?"

Charlotte grew uncomfortable; she was not sure it was her place to answer this. "Why do you ask?"

Oren pulled away to stare at a beautiful marble likeness of Andraste. Charlotte stared as well, noting that her placement allowed her to bask in the afternoon sun, the only place in the room in fact that benefited from the arched windows carved high into the walls behind them.

"Because Mummy says that many men may die in this battle. That Father needs to be careful." He turned back to Charlotte. "Is… is my father going to die?"

Charlotte nearly fell over as she reached for him, "No! No, Oren, you mustn't think like that! Your father will be fine!"

When Oren's face remained cast over with fear and doubt, Charlotte came down on one knee and drew him to her side, facing Andraste.

"Oren, no one really knows what happens when you die. Your father is a capable warrior and will do everything in his power not to leave you."

Unsatisfied, he shook his head, "But what if… what if other men we know die? Where will they go?"

The Chant of Light spoke of this, but not in a way that would satisfy Oren's restless heart. His fear was that of a child and he sought not truth, but reassurance.

"I once asked my father that question," she replied quietly, "And he said the Chant tells us we go to the Fade. But he thought that it was more than that. Oren, do you ever look at the stars?"

Oren looked confused, "The stars, Auntie Charlotte?"

Charlotte smiled, "Yes, the stars. They are beautiful, aren't they?"

"If you say so, Auntie Charlotte."

She laughed, "Alright then! Father believes - and I tend to agree with him - where we go is somewhere like that." Again, she faced the statue of Andraste, whose head was bent piously over an extended hand. Her stone face seemed to smile a little, and Charlotte smiled back. "If Andraste and the Maker are truly there, waiting for believers, then I imagine it is like living among the stars."

Oren turned to look at Andraste and furrowed his brow in concentration. Charlotte waited, giving him some time to consider, not pushing him to accept what she had offered.

Finally, he smiled. "It's like the stars?"

She stroked his hair, "That's what we think."

Oren nodded, "I like that, Auntie Charlotte."

Andraste was still smiling. "As do I, Oren."

Now, Charlotte felt as if she owned the stars and had lost them at the same time. Although her heart sung with the beautiful night sky and cool evening air that spoke of the change from winter to spring, it also ached with the loss of the people she would normally share it with. Oren's voice echoed in her ears, the image of his adoring and trusting face lashing at her heart. She thought of her father and her mother, how they would panic at her absence come morning. She had left them a letter explaining why she ran away. She begged their forgiveness, promising her love for them always. Charlotte only hoped it would be enough, for now, and that they could someday be reunited once all this confusion had blown over.

Hearing another sound of activity behind the castle wall, Charlotte resumed moving and hurried over to the kennels. Mastodon awaited her impatiently, bounding out when she undid the latch. She hushed him when he tried to bark and Mastodon huffed with embarrassment. Although he possessed an intelligence that could often outwit humans, he was still a hound and sometimes had occasion to betray himself by becoming overexcited.

"We have to reach the woods," she whispered, looking furtively over her shoulder. "Once we reach the east edge of the forest, we can find a way to travel to Denerim."

Mastodon whined.

Charlotte sighed with exasperation, "I know you prefer Amaranthine, but that is the first place they will look!"

Mastodon grumbled.

"Denerim has excellent biscuits! And not from a charlatan like Francois Dupris – he only gave them to you to get me to buy some of his Orlesian silk, and he was a crook. Now come along!"

They began to make way to the forest, Mastodon sulking in her wake. Charlotte tutted, "Honestly! You're a traitor to your country!"

Mastodon woofed indignantly. Charlotte shushed him, and they proceeded in silence.

Electing not to steal her father's horse – which would require more provisions and possibly identify her – she planned to cut through the woods until she could reach the Pilgrim's Path and slowly make her way to Denerim. Father had provided her training in skills required to survive. If necessary to escape capture, she would camp in the woods along the side of the road, but she imagined it would be easy to book a room at an inn.

Once at the thickening of the trees, both turned back to stare one last time at their home. The finality of what they were about to do struck them, and neither made a sound. Beyond the turrets and towers of the castle, the stars still glittered in the velvet sky; little glowing flickers of orange stole through windows from torches perched inside iron brackets along the stone walls.

"Goodbye," Charlotte whispered; one tear slid down her cheek. Mastodon whined again; reluctantly, they turned away to begin their journey.

* * *

It was at that moment that Charlotte heard the first scream.

Initially, she was so startled she wasn't sure she'd heard it. But Mastodon's furious barking cut through her doubt and, without further thought, Charlotte dispatched her pack, reeled around and ran as fast as she could back to the castle.

The servant's exit was closed to her from the outside. She was going to run to the front entrance when an explosion erupted somewhere in front of the castle, setting the night on fire. Gasping in astonishment, Charlotte fell back. She stared in patent disbelief as the flames rose. More screams erupted and the sounds of men shouting began to climb. Scrambling to her feet, Charlotte tore across the grass towards the stables to grab a length of rope. Horses whinnied in panic as she entered, the loud backlash of her weight slamming into the stable doors frightening them in the darkness. Mastodon had sense enough to remain quiet, although he growled menacingly in the dark.

Charlotte ran back into the night, tying a knot as she went. There was a chance she could climb into her own bedroom window, if she could throw the rope high enough. There was a small turret above her chamber, and with that to secure her, she could scale the wall all the way up. Chest heaving as she staved off terror and panic, Charlotte ran with all her might and reached a reasonable distance to cast her line. Charlotte took a deep breath, concentrated on the turret, and waited. Her muscles were rock hard with tension and she could hear the sounds of swords clanking and more people screaming. If she allowed any fear into her mind, she would miss the turret and fail to come to their aid. She had to focus.

Sound fell away, and all that existed was the turret. She felt the rope heavy in her hand; she willed the wind to curve around it in her favor. Slowly, deliberately, she bent her knee, stepped one foot behind her, and lifted her arm. Charlotte wound up, leaned back, and threw.

The rope rose high in the air, floating briefly out of reach of its target, then fell into place and secured. Charlotte exhaled roughly.

"Mastodon," she turned to her companion, "you must wait for me here. I will let you in from the servant's exit once I am able to reach it. Do you understand?"

Mastodon growled with impatience, but he understood. He could not climb a rope, and going through the front of the castle would be too dangerous. Reluctantly, he sat, folding his ears back – an indication he would be waiting.

Scaling the wall was almost immediate. Her mind was working furiously and time passed in leaps rather than seconds. Charlotte landed softly in a cat-like position on the floor, trying to take advantage of her light leather armor and not make a sound. If the castle was under attack, she knew she and her family would be the prime targets.

There were shouts and scuffling outside her door. Someone was trying to force their way in. Charlotte drew her daggers and positioned herself. When the door burst open, two men came tumbling through. Charlotte froze and attempted to conceal herself behind the door. Both men wore surcoats… _bearing the Howe family insignia. _Charlotte was momentarily aghast; but she had little time as the man nearest her whirled around, seeming to sense her horror. When he spotted her, a guttural yowl exited his throat as he charged forward, waving a sword. Charlotte slit the throat of he who charged while kicking out at the other, who had chosen to closely follow. The latter fell, cursing and grappling for his sword, but Charlotte was too quick. With one sweep his throat erupted in a wave of scarlet, while a torrent poured from his gut all over the floor.

Breathing hard, Charlotte tensed and waited for more, but none came. _Howe. _Why was this happening? Quickly, she moved on, trying not to think of what she had just done.

The outer chamber of the family's apartments was eerily quiet. Everything felt unnatural, the light harsh, as if what her eyes were being forced to see was too loud. The silence rang with a scream of something being very wrong, and Charlotte swiftly moved on to the other room. A guest chamber; its occupant was dead.

Charlotte staggered back in shock. Dead? But how? Where were the guardsmen? Where was her father? Father! Mother! What if-

"Darling!"

Charlotte swung round, relief choking her. "Mother! Oh, Mother!" She ran into Eleanor's arms, who clasped her tightly.

"Darling! Thank the Maker! I heard men outside my room; they belong to Howe! I came as soon as I could. Are you hurt? What is happening?"

Charlotte shook her head, trying not to shake, "I don't know! There were men, they came into my room. I… I…"

Eleanor pushed passed her and gasped at the carnage on the floor. After a moment of silence, Eleanor returned to her, touching her face with concern. "You're sure you're not hurt?"

Charlotte nodded.

"Good," Eleanor was brisk. "We must find your father. Have you seen him?"

Again, Charlotte resisted an overwhelming sense of panic. "You haven't?"

Eleanor's face wrinkled with distress. "When I woke he was gone."

There was a moment of silence as they both thought this over, when Eleanor looked at Charlotte in horror.

"Oren," she breathed.


	3. Recruited

Every room they checked harbored corpses. Fergus' chamber proved no different.

He had been impaled. Viciously. His little body lay broken on the rug, blood outlining his corpse. Oriana lay feet away, one hand desperately outstretched, her body riddled with wounds, and her skirts bunched around her waist…

Eleanor screamed as her tears fell, but Charlotte could feel nothing. All the terror drained away as she stared into Oren's blank face. His blue, blue eyes were like glass. They saw nothing; not the blue sky of tomorrow, nor the reflection of the man he might have been. In her mind Charlotte heard his voice pipe the question, _"When will you teach me, Auntie Charlotte?! When will you teach me to fight like you?"_

And then: _"Where do people go when they die, Auntie Charlotte?"_

_"They go to the stars."_

"Mother."

Eleanor whimpered pathetically, her hands grasping at Oren's body.

"Mother," Charlotte murmured firmly. "We must go."

"B-but…B-but O-Oren…"

"He will be avenged, but only if we move."

This seemed to bring her back, and Eleanor rose, hiccupping and staring at her dead grandson. After a moment she gained some composure, and looked furiously into Charlotte's eyes. "Howe will pay for this!"

Charlotte nodded, unable to do or say more and, somewhere in the distance, thunder began to crack.

* * *

They ran through the apartments, fighting a few men on the way and dispatching them expediently. Before departing Fergus' chamber, Eleanor gave Charlotte the key to the treasury: "Retrieve the Cousland sword and, first chance you get, you severe Howe's treacherous head!"

The atrium had a slanted stone runway leading down to the main halls of the castle. Charlotte could see fires in the distance; the screams of earlier had grown more quiet and it made her sick to think of why. Thunder rolled in the sky above her, and lightening cracked like the strike of a god. Carefully, Charlotte traced her way down the slanted runway, Eleanor behind her with an arrow nocked and ready to fire.

As Charlotte reached mouth of the atrium's arch, she paused to get her bearings. The first patters of rain stained her hands and feet. She could feel herself shaking. Oren's glass-like eyes haunted her, the stain of his blood continuing to grow as a scream inside her chest. She tried to remember the cold she felt before so she could concentrate, but the rain was cleansing it away from her.

In the distance, men's shouts grew nearer. Charlotte shrank back, waiting to see if they appeared friend or foe. The rain began to pick up, hitting her in spatters through the atrium's open roof, and Charlotte waited.

One man tore around the corner, gasping and whimpering in fear, a small sword clutched in his hand. He was a servant; Charlotte could recognize him from his clothes. As he threw himself back against the wall to face his attackers, the hand that clutched his sword's hilt shook violently, and he held it without calculation in front of him as he used the other hand to trace his way along the wall.

Charlotte would have grabbed him, but she didn't want to incite his panic any further, and so she remained invisible in the shadows while the man panted and huddled with terror.

Out of the darkness an arrow whistled and struck the man in the chest. He jumped in surprise and gargled on his own blood as he tried to shout, before dropping harshly to the floor. Charlotte stared, eyes wide, as his eyes rolled back and he slumped over. Behind her, Eleanor hissed. Lightning struck, making Charlotte jump, and she saw in its blinding glory a tapestry flapping against the wind. On it was a depiction of Andraste rising from her ashes as her followers mourned on their knees. One hand she lovingly stretched out, her face a picture of forgiveness.

From one corner to the top slashed the darkest blood.

* * *

"GO!"

Eleanor nocked another arrow and covered her. Charlotte pushed through.

The man had tried to come at Charlotte with a mace, but she was fueled by rage and moved faster. One dagger planted itself to the hilt in his chest; as he arched back, she ripped the other across his neck, and his knees buckled onto the ground.

They kept running, killing one man after the other. Mastodon had somehow fought his way through and reached them with a torn ear. He growled and spat at an archer as Eleanor brought him down. The rain had gone and fires continued to burn, while thunder rolled above them, as if the Maker himself were raging at Howe's betrayal.

Charlotte reached the treasury, where she grabbed her family's sword and – at her mother's behest – a small sum of silvers, which Eleanor quickly stuffed in a small pouch and gave to her. Charlotte realized her mother wouldn't have known she was already running, but the Teyrna asked no questions, and they reached the main hall.

Ser Gilmore and what was left of his men were fighting. Charlotte dove into the fray, screaming, while Eleanor shouted something unintelligible and fired her bow. Once Howe's men were cornered, Ser Gilmore and his men killed them, rushing to secure the front doors.

"My lady!" Ser Gilmore bellowed, galloping to the Teyrna in relief. "You are alive! Thank the Maker."

Eleanor's eyes gleamed with rage and grief, "Thank you, Ser Gilmore. Have you seen my husband?"

Ser Gilmore's face grew troubled, "He was injured my lady. That Grey Warden, Duncan, took him out of the fray. I fear… he was badly wounded."

Eleanor's expression contorted with worry, "Where did the Grey Warden take him?"

Ser Gilmore tried to look reassuring, but struggled as he clutched a wound at his side, his face pale and dirty from the soot of the fires. "To the servant's exit in the larder, My Lady. Please, you must go there."

Eleanor nodded, grabbing Charlotte by the arm. "Thank you, Ser Gilmore, may the Maker watch over you."

He nodded and ran back to his men, shouting orders. "Come on Darling, we must hurry."

* * *

Every room had been in disarray; a few dead bodies littered the floors alongside broken crates, overturned furniture, and books that had been ripped to shreds. Her tutor, Old Aldous, had been murdered, along with Nan in the kitchen. And when Charlotte pushed the door to the larder, she somehow knew what she would find behind it.

And yet, the horror of it was no less than the worse she could have expected.

Bryce Cousland lay on the dirt floor, bloodied and white, one hand holding his side together where he had been viciously slashed by Howe's men.

"BRYCE!" Eleanor rushed to him, terrified he was already dead. Charlotte followed.

"Eleanor? Eleanor! Pup! Oh, thank the Maker you're alive!"

Bryce tried to sit up, but his face twisted with pain, and he slipped back down. Mastodon began barking and Charlotte grabbed his collar to restrain him.

"Don't tax yourself! You've been wounded! What happened?"

Charlotte heard her mother's words from a distance. Clutched in her father's opposite hand was a piece of crumpled parchment. It looked horribly familiar.

"I… found… a letter. From Charlotte. Running away…"

Eleanor shook her head in confusion, "No, Bryce! She's right here."

Charlotte couldn't breathe.

Bryce tried again, "I went… to check on Charlotte. There was a letter. Said she was… running away. Went to the front to find her. Howe's men were there." He coughed, and blood spattered generously onto the ground.

Eleanor turned her tear-stained face to her daughter, her expression bewildered. "Charlotte?"

Charlotte could say nothing. Her eyes were wide with something unspeakable as she absorbed what her father had said.

He had been looking for her.

And that was how that traitor's men had found him.

Because of her, Father was dead.

"Charlotte!" Eleanor's tears fell freely, but her voice was strong and clear. "Explain this!"

Bryce reached out and grasped his wife's hand, "It is… unimportant. Thank the… Maker… you are safe."

Charlotte could barely speak. "Father…" she whispered, her expression still frozen.

Bryce tried to smile through his pain as Eleanor sobbed. He transferred his grasp to Charlotte, discarding the parchment from his hand. "I understand, Charlotte. You… came back. Thank you."

Eleanor ripped the parchment into her hands and read it with increasing horror. Charlotte focused on Bryce only, willing him to live with all her might.

"This is… how could you!"

"Eleanor…" Bryce interrupted wearily, "It does not matter; you are safe now."

Casting the parchment aside, Eleanor stroked his face. "But you are not! You must come with us through the servant's exit. We must find you healing magic!"

Bryce shook his head, wincing, still clutching his side. "I fear… I will not survive… the standing up…"

"No father," Charlotte insisted thickly, trying to hold back her tears. "You are strong. You're going to be fine. We'll help you." Mastodon whined in agreement.

Sighing heavily, Bryce shook his head once more. "Oh Pup… if only willing it… made it so."

Losing strength, Bryce fell over, grunting with pain and Eleanor cried out. "Bryce!" The air filled with more of Mastodon's concerned yipping.

"No… no, you must go on… without me. We are surrounded…"

"We're not going without you! There must be a way!"

"My lady."

Everyone turned as Duncan entered, blockading the door behind him. "We are fortunate in that Howe's men have not yet discovered this exit. Your husband is indeed correct when he says that we are surrounded." Grimly, Duncan nodded his respects to Charlotte's mother, "And I am afraid your husband is not strong enough to make it."

"Duncan," Bryce breathed. "Thank you."

Outraged, Eleanor turned to the grizzled Grey Warden. "For what! You failed to save my husband's life!"

Duncan bowed his head in shame, "It is my deepest regret that I was unable to reach him sooner."

"No! … No, without… Duncan…. I…" The Teyrn slumped over.

Charlotte cradled Bryce before he could fall again, "Careful, Father. You must rest!"

"Please, Teyrn, do not tax yourself to defend me. Your wife has every right to be disturbed."

Bryce turned to Eleanor, who mewled helplessly as she stared into his face. "Oren… did you find…"

At this, Eleanor's tears seemed to evaporate. She shook in her fury.

"They killed them, Bryce." Her voice wavered with strain. "Oren and Oriana both."

If it were possible, Bryce paled even further. "No!" he gasped. Charlotte clutched him closer, trying to keep him together, grasping his arm until her knuckles went white.

Outside, a fresh cacophony of sound reached them: the crumbling of the gates. Howe's men had finally breached them.

Bending on one knee, Duncan spoke urgently, "My lordship, we must leave now. I can take your wife and daughter from the Teyrnir, get them to safety."

Bryce nodded painfully, "I am forever in your debt. I can never repay you."

"Father, we are not going without you!" Charlotte's tears began to fall; she fought against them so they would not detract from her cause. Bryce smiled sadly and touched the face of his spirited girl.

"You _must_… go without me… You must… tell Fergus…" The Teyrn inhaled sharply, clutching his side, blood seeping out between his fingers.

"No, say no more." Eleanor took him from Charlotte, wrapping her thin arms about him protectively.

In the quiet of the larder, Charlotte could already hear them pillaging. There were the sounds of more men dying; the last of those who had tried to hold Howe's men off. Mastodon was growling; his strong body curled in as he circled the larder and watched over them.

"Darling," Eleanor pulled Charlotte back into the moment. Her face was streaked with tears. "Charlotte, you must go."

Her words dropped into place, echoing in Charlotte's ears. "I? Mother?"

Looking down into her dying husband's face, the Teyrna stroked away his protests and smiled through fresh tears. "It is the only way. I will not leave you – in life or beyond. I am staying." To Charlotte, she urgently persuaded, grabbing one of her hands. "I will shoot any bastard that comes through here. Give you more time."

Horrified, Charlotte retorted, "I will not leave without you!"

The sounds of cracking and crashing grew closer.

Reluctantly, Duncan touched the young woman's shoulder. "We must go, my lady, or all our lives will be forfeit." Eleanor nodded, once again pulling Charlotte's hand closer. "Live – tell Fergus what transpired here. Carry on the Cousland name. For me and for your father."

Charlotte stared with incomprehension, but there was no time. And there was still one condition.

"Teyrn," Duncan bent to look in Bryce's eyes. They fluttered open with effort; he did not have much longer. "There is one thing I must ask of you. One way you can pay not me, but all of Ferelden."

"Anything," Bryce whispered.

Duncan nodded, "What we see here tonight pales in comparison with the hordes rising in the South. I came here searching for a recruit; the darkspawn threat demands that I leave with one."

Charlotte could hardly believe her ears, "What?"

Bryce and Eleanor stared at their only daughter, neither of them wishing to assign her this fate. But Duncan was their only answer, her way out of this mess, and they could not deny him.

"You… you have my permission." Bryce coughed from the effort.

Nodding once more, Duncan rose from his knees and offered a kindness, "Say goodbye. We must leave." He moved to further barricade the door, allowing them some privacy.

Shaking, Charlotte shook her head. It was too much. "Go, Darling," Eleanor murmured, helping her up. "We love you. We will always love you."

"No, Mother-"

Cool hands cupped her face, "You will make us proud. I love you."

Eleanor kissed her and passed her to Duncan and, before she could protest further, he swept her through the servant's exit, Mastodon following closely behind them. Realizing what this meant, Charlotte turned back, "WAIT-"

The door clacked shut. Charlotte plummeted into darkness; all that was left to answer her was silence.


	4. The Gorgeous One

"Your insolence does you no favors, Templar!"

Sighing inwardly, Alistair plastered a brittle smile onto his face. If Duncan caught him flapping his tongue at one of the mages, Alistair would have to endure that gravelly sigh of disapproval for certain. Ah well.

"And here I thought we were getting along. I was even going to name one of my children after you… the grumpy one."

Huffing a loud "cha!" the elder enchanter turned one haughty heel and stalked off. His shoulders were by his ears, hands clenched and emitting small sparks. Alistair was unconcerned. He could handle any minor spell the mage might try to throw at him. As the mage stomped down the ramp, a small figure darted around the corner.

"Out of my way!" The senior enchanter sidled off like a crab, still huffing indignantly, and a gentle voice murmured her apology.

Alistair waited. From a distance, all he saw was a female figure and, gauging from her humility towards the mage, she was probably a servant – possibly elven, considering her delicate figure. But as she padded closer, Alistair did a double take.

"Blimey," his voice cracked with surprise. "Er, yes, can I help you?"

She was beautiful. Not just beautiful – the most beautiful girl he had ever laid his eyes on. Not that, living his life in the stifling arms of the Chantry, he had been allowed to look upon many women, but… still.

Her bottle-green eyes were huge in her face as she approached him. Although her skin was somewhat pale, there was a rosiness underneath, and he guessed from her pallor and the dark circles under her eyes that she had endured an exhausting journey. She spoke with full, pink lips that momentarily mesmerized him. And her hair...

"Pardon?" Alistair tried to drag himself back into the present. "What did you say?"

"I am… the new Grey Warden. Duncan sent me to you. Are you the Warden Alistair?"

Clearing his throat, Alistair nodded and greeted her, "Well met, but you can just call me Alistair. So you are the recruit Duncan spoke so highly of? We are glad to have you." Inwardly, Alistair prayed the Maker to preserve him. She a Grey Warden! Of all the women in Ferelden to join the Order, Duncan had to pick the gorgeous one.

Hesitantly, she dipped her chin in thanks, her hands awkwardly folded in front of her. "I am to receive my orders?"

Momentarily taken aback, Alistair grinned uncertainly, "Well, of course, but I should like to know your name…?"

This seemed to startle and confuse her. Her brow creased. Alistair silently congratulated himself on being awkward as ever, trying to understand her unexpected response. However, she seemed to recover herself and quickly answered.

"I… I am Charlotte." Her voice cut off abruptly, her shoulders arching protectively as she subtly lifted her chin.

_If that's her real name then I'm a monkey's uncle_, Alistair thought. "Good. Well then, now that you're here, you and the other two recruits will be accompanying me into the Wilds."

Her eyebrows raised, "The Wilds?"

"Yes," he replied evasively, "There is something we need there. As part of your recruitment, you and the others will assist me in getting it."

"I am at your disposal," she began to curtsy gracefully, then seemed to catch herself, and merely nodded.

There was a moment's awkward silence; endeavoring to end it, the junior Grey Warden clapped his hands together and excused himself. "Well! I shall go speak with Duncan; feel free to explore the camp. There's food in the large tent near the other Grey Wardens over there. I'm not sure what Bridge will have to eat at this time in the morning, but I am sure she'd be glad to whip you up something scrumptious!"

Looking quizzical again, Charlotte inquired, "Bridge?"

Alistair grinned, "Ah, Bridget. She's a saint – does all the camp's cooking. Sees a lot of the Grey Wardens, she does."

To his pleasure, Charlotte smiled a little. "Very well. And after that? Where should I go?"

"Did you happen to notice the big fire on the west side of camp?"

"Yes, my….my companion is there, with Duncan."

_Companion? _"Good. Meet us there after you've had a bite to eat. You look like you could use it. Cheers!"

The young lady – and he had no doubt she was of noble birth, what with that stifled curtsy and her generally strange behavior – strode off in the direction he had indicated. He watched over her, concerned, then shook himself and went to find Duncan.

As usual, the Warden-Commander looked serious as he studied the fire; that said, Alistair immediately felt the tinge of something extra and hurried his pace.

"Duncan," he greeted respectfully, his heart swelling a little at the sight of his mentor. "I trust you had a successful journey?"

To his surprise, Duncan chortled a little, and then shook his head. Although Duncan was now a temperate man, the young Riviani who once spat in the face of authority was still sometimes there, and it was times like this that his appreciation for laughing in the face of irony or hardship that the sardonic young man shone through.

"I am not so sure." His soothing voice, a mixture of gravel and honey, rumbled deep from inside his chest as his dark eyes remained fixed on the fire.

"What do you mean?"

Around them, men and women continued to prepare for battle. Wood was chopped, weapons sharpened. Hounds barked from the kennels while some men sparred nearby. The smells of smoke, oil, herbs and sweat were heavy in the cool mid-morning air and Alistair could hear the ripple of each tent's proud banner as they resisted the wind.

From around the other side of the fire, a magnificent hound emerged. He studied the junior warden before approaching Duncan with a short, "woof!"

"Yes, this is Alistair. He has spoken with your mistress, it seems."

The hound looked upon Alistair with that uncanny intelligence that defined the breed. He wore no Kaddis on his back like those hounds of the Ash Warriors, but sported an elegant leather collar around his neck. Around one ear was a white bandage; it was a testament to the dog's self-discipline that he had not disturbed it.

"This is Mastodon. He was injured before we came here."

"Hello, boy," Alistair bent down, offering one hand. "You're a handsome devil, aren't you?"

Seeming to approve of this sentiment, Mastodon granted Alistair his good ear and allowed him the privilege of stroking it.

"How was he injured?" Alistair raised his eyes to Duncan's, who seemed to have finally drawn them away from the flames.

"Defending his family. They were killed."

Duncan allowed that to sink in. Once the penny dropped, _"my companion,"_ Alistair looked upon the injury with renewed horror. "Charlotte's family?"

There was a pause. Finally, Duncan replied simply, "Yes."

Outraged, Alistair stood abruptly, making Mastodon jump back. "How?"

It seemed difficult for Duncan to speak of it. Though Alistair knew him as a taciturn man, he generally answered quickly when spoken to, and his obvious disturbance was alarming.

"Duncan, what happened to them?"

Finally, the Warden-Commander answered. "They were murdered by Arl Rendon Howe, who sought to take the Teyrnir."

Processing this, Alistair exclaimed, "Wait… she's not… Charlotte _Cousland?_"

Duncan offered him a small smile, "She is. And a remarkable young woman. She fought bravely; I had to carry her away in order to keep her alive, such was her determination to stand by her family."

Alistair's mind reeled with this information, "But… if she's… a Teyrn's daughter, how did she agree to join the Grey Wardens? Did the recruit you sought out die in the coup?"

Duncan raised a disapproving eyebrow, "It might astonish you Alistair, but she was, and now is, the recruit I sought in Highever."

Alistair blushed; "I'm sorry Duncan… it's just…wasn't she offered much better? I mean, she could have married the king!"

"The Grey Wardens, as you should well know, are not concerned with social station. She is a fine warrior and, should she survive the Joining, you will be proud to serve with her I am sure."

That Alistair had implied the contrary upset him, but he tried not to stumble over his words, a habit which made him feel foolish. "I have no doubt; I am merely concerned for the girl. With a family like hers, she could do a great deal better than sacrifice and service."

"That may be true, but what we do is a noble calling, and she has submitted to it with poise. Her family is gone, save her brother, and we discovered upon our arrival that he is scouting in the Wilds and will not be seen again until the eve of battle." Duncan sighed sympathetically, "Understandably, she was anxious to reach him. But we cannot help that now."

Secretly, Alistair disagreed, but he kept his peace. Duncan knew best and he had to admit that there was wisdom in what he said. However, the girl had lost her entire family in one night. Surely they could ensure she did not lose her brother?

"I know what you are thinking, Alistair," Duncan spoke wryly. "And the King himself has sworn vengeance for her. Be satisfied with that, for now."

Alistair flushed, then thought this over. A question occurred to him.

"Why have you told me all of this?" Alistair regarded him quizzically. "I mean, why should I know?"

Quietly, Duncan moved closer, lowering his voice so others would not overhear. "Because it is your duty as the junior warden to watch over her. She has suffered a great loss, and though she performed admirably since, there has been a great deal of pressure. Just be careful. Keep an eye on her, Alistair."

* * *

The moments after had been the worst. Fires burned in the castle; the metallic smell of blood rose into the air. Thunder rolled and cracked, while sounds of animals screaming echoed against the walls. The sounds of brutal men coming to roost in her family's castle.

Initially, Charlotte had resisted. Once she realized it was hopeless, she had gone limp in Duncan's arms and whimpered. Duncan dragged her into the stables, secured them each a horse, and stole away into the forest with Mastodon galloping alongside his mistress, who lolled disconsolately on her mount. It didn't rain as they rode through the night, but Charlotte could still hear the thunder, her eyes seeing nothing of the black blur of leaves highlighted by snatches of silver moonlight.

Hours later, sure they were not being followed, Duncan made camp.

"My lady."

Charlotte clutched Winifred's mane; she was a small grey mare her father had purchased for Eleanor. The horse huffed nervously, tapping the earth with one hoof as she jerked her head a little to ease the young woman's grip.

Man and hound drew closer; the latter whined and nuzzled one toe. Realizing the fuss she must be causing for both of them, she slid from her mount onto the ground, willing her knees not to buckle.

"I am fine." Charlotte took mechanical note of the burning fire and single tent. "I have no canvas."

"I expected that," he replied kindly. "You may make use of mine. We shall continue our journey in the morning."

Words stuck inside her, gumming like glue in her throat. She nodded curt thanks and turned to look around her, seeking some context to bring her back to earth.

"We are moving South," Duncan answered her unspoken inquiry as he bent to stoke the fire. Its orange glow lit the planes of his face, casting half of it in shadow and gleaming along his black beard. She supposed he had been handsome once, perhaps even dashing with his ponytail and silver earring.

"There is a small river to the east. You may wash there, if you wish."

When Charlotte opened her mouth to ask for a bar of soap, Duncan handed over her pack, which she accepted with surprise. "You said something," he told her without looking into her eyes, "As we were about to ride away. You led me to it." Charlotte vaguely remembered… Embarrassed, she murmured her thanks and quickly walked towards the trees.

The early song of cicadas and crickets greeted her as she dropped to her knees by the river. Blood ran in rivulets down her arms, the constant dipping of her hands grossly distorting her reflection in the water. She pulled some soap from her satchel to lather off. After several moments' hesitation, Andraste's locket had been withdrawn from her pack. But, unable to wear it, she hastily stowed it away again and rushed back to camp.

Now, Ostagar smoked and echoed around her, bouncing the sounds of mages, soldiers, sisters of the Chantry, and a host of others off the enormous fort's walls. Charlotte stared into the large fire near the Grey Warden's encampment, slowly trickling the locket's chain between her fingers. Her head pounded a little with exhaustion; they had made it back to camp within three days, managing to reach Ostagar with one day to spare before the battle.

Bridget, the plump cook who greeted her with flour-dusted cheeks and a sunny smile, had obligingly provided some salted and buttered oat porridge in a metal bowl. Charlotte ate it with little enthusiasm, but she had forced it down, thoughts of Nan's disapproving but caring face, which had oft been a part of her morning meal, appeared unwelcome in her mind. Mastodon had found her later as she wandered the camp and introduced her to someone whom he seemed to feel she was obligated to thank.

Barking, he had bounded up to her, giving Charlotte that sweetly urgent look that clearly ordered her to _Follow me! _His stubby tail was wagging furiously and the old woman he greeted stroked him with a gentle hand, smiling peacefully.

"Hello, jolly fellow, how are you mending?"

"Woof! woof!"

"I'm sorry," Charlotte apologized gratefully, "Is he disturbing you?" Her eyes wandered briefly over to a closed off circle where three mages were casting themselves into the Fade, closely guarded by humorless-looking Templars in helmets that allowed only a tiny slit for their watchful eyes.

"Not at all," the woman laughed kindly. "He is a welcome friend."

"It seems he feels that you are due my highest accord. Were you the mage who healed his ear?"

The woman confirmed it, blue eyes crinkling, "I was. And he made a model patient!" Mastodon barked enthusiastically.

"However," she continued, her voice taking on a humorous air, "That does not mean you are entitled to any more biscuits." Disappointed, Mastodon whined.

"Shameless beggar!" Charlotte laughed, surprising herself. "You'll get as fat as an Orlesian granny!"

Sticking his nose in the air, Mastodon did not dignify her with a reply, and flounced off.

The old woman chortled, "He's a good sort, Mastodon, and even cleverer than usual." She turned to Charlotte and offered a more formal introduction, "I am Wynne, a Senior Enchanter. Well met."

"I am Charlotte Cousland, thank you for attending to Mastodon. I am surprised a Senior Enchanter would tend to a hound."

Wynne smiled, "The kennel master has cause to call for us, from time to time. He did not want Mastodon to lose his ear, and the master knows I have a soft spot for animals."

Chagrined, Charlotte curtsied a little. "My apologies; I only meant to imply our fortune that we had your help. Mastodon is my most treasured companion."

"And you are his; he had quite a lot to say about you, in his way."

Charlotte blushed. After a moment's silence (which Wynne continued to smile pleasantly through), Charlotte attempted to make further conversation. She pointed to the mages in the circle, "Are they doing something important?"

Wynne turned and looked where she had indicated, then replied, "They are in the Fade."

"Ah."

"Yes, we are all doing our parts in anticipation of this battle. You are the new Grey Warden? You must be proud."

Truthfully, Charlotte did not know what she felt. "Yes, thank you."

The senior enchanter's eyes studied her knowingly, their piercing blue unsettling in spite of her calm manner. "Duncan must have been very impressed with you, to go such a long way." She smiled, "I am certain you will do well in the trials for your recruitment." Charlotte opened her mouth to ask another question.

"Wynne!" a young female mage had appeared in the entrance of a nearby tent, one arm extended to push back its canvas flap. "We need you."

Wynne nodded and the young woman withdrew. She turned back to Charlotte, "Be cautious in battle, young Charlotte. May the Maker watch over you." With that, she briskly departed.

"And you," Charlotte had murmured.

"Are you settling in?" The voice drew her out of her thoughts and Charlotte looked up into Alistair's cheerful face next to hers as he knelt down by the fire. Quickly, she stowed Andraste's locket behind her breastplate. "Duncan sent me to check on you. He is collecting the other recruits."

Even though it must of have been stifling with all his armor, Charlotte was cold under hers. "I don't have a tent," she replied quietly, "So I'm not sure where to settle in."

Alistair looked confused; after a moment's silence, he stuttered, "Um… well, don't you… you know…"

Now it was Charlotte's turn to be confused, "What?"

To her mystification, he had turned pink. Finally, he said, "Well, what about your brother's tent? Does he not have one in the army's encampment?"

Ah; so Duncan had outed her. She had been hoping to avoid this, but she supposed it was inevitable. "So, Duncan told you?" She laughed sardonically. "I suppose he had to."

"Only your name," Alistair replied hastily, "He felt I should know." After a moment's impregnated silence, Alistair asked, "Why… was there more?"

_Curious_; Charlotte thought. She would have assumed there was. "No, but I don't want to be treated like the-" it pained her to say it, "... The Teyrn's daughter."

Nodding, Alistair murmured that he understood. When Charlotte regarded him curiously, he pinkened again. "Not that I know anything about being, well, noble, it's just it makes sense. Becoming a Grey Warden and all. Better to – you know – make a name for yourself."

"Yes," Charlotte replied, puzzled.

"My lady!" Galloping footsteps caused them both to turn. "You're here! Where is the Teyrn?" An elven servant, Fendrel, stopped a few feet behind them, his eyes wide with concern.

Charlotte's throat closed; the servants. She hadn't even thought. What would she say to them? Andraste's sword, what about their families back at the castle? She knew nothing of their fates.

"You would do well to more calmly address her," Alistair chastised, "Her ladyship has had a difficult journey."

Charlotte's eyes snapped back to Alistair, narrowing with suspicion. He gave himself away when he blushed entirely, his face darkening from pink to red. She addressed Fendrel .

"I am coming at once; please gather the others."

Obviously frightened, Fendrel bowed then hurried away. Once he was out of earshot, Charlotte glared at Alistair. "Nothing else?"

Discombobulated, Alistair just stuttered.

"Very well. Since you are so interested, you will follow me."

Without further ado, Charlotte rose and went to her father's tent, Mastodon and a miserable Alistair following closely behind her.

The tent was one of the largest, outstripped in size and grandeur only by the royal encampment belonging to King Cailan and Teyrn Loghain. Servants and a few men-at-arms who were not scouting or practicing on the field were gathering near the tent's entrance, looking bewildered and scared.

In her breast, Charlotte's heart was pounding. She had not prepared… not even considered this possibility. In her mind, Fergus was going to be the one to do this, but he wasn't here. There was no one to take responsibility for her. The thought gave her resolve, and she strode confidently forward.

"My lady."

"My lady."

"My lady."

They all whispered, hands reaching out with concern, the servants leaning solicitously forward. There was fear and dread in their eyes, and Charlotte's heart broke as she faced them.

"It is good to see you." Charlotte rose her voice as the whispers died down, trying to look into each face with the same benevolence as her mother would have done.

"I know my presence here is… unexpected. And I cannot pretend that I am not the bearer of bad news."

The whispers rose again, and Charlotte swallowed deeply, ruffled by their disquiet.

"Betrayal has come to house Cousland. And it has left blood on our door." Weighed heavily, she bowed her head, hiding tears glistening and ready to fall. "My mother and father are dead."

An outcry rose among the servants, while one of the men-at-arms cried, "No!" in disbelief. Charlotte raised her arm for quiet. She told them the story, sometimes halting as emotions overcame her. Finally, she told them what they most wanted to know.

"I know almost nothing of the fates of others. It troubles me deeply that this is so, and I regret I have no more comfort to offer."

"Did you see nothing at all?!" cried one of the female elves, clutching her face with desperate horror. "No survivors whatever?"

Others murmured in agreement, while a few wailed and sobbed. Charlotte shook her head, trying to ignore the tremor in her hands from being under the pressure of their fear. She had been so fueled by grief and rage that little registered as she tore through Howe's men in search of her father. "I saw few bodies, but whatever survivors escaped, I fear I did not see them either."

Their response was further outcry. The women sobbed. One in particular mourned the loss of Teyrna Eleanor, shedding bereft tears into her thin hands.

Charlotte hesitated, unsure how to call them to order. She was surprised when a soldier exploded with anger, demanding to know why they weren't leaving the camp and marching on Vigil's Keep to kill Arl Howe.

Charlotte stared. After a moment, she withdrew her family's sword from the sheath in her belt and held it up in the air.

"Arl Rendon Howe will feel my family's justice," she pointed the blade at her father's men, "The king himself has promised me that this will be so. But today we must fight for Ferelden. We must stop the Blight from tearing her asunder and give my family a land that they can continue to defend!"

The others slowly grew quiet, and the few men who had withdrawn from their activities outside of camp regarded one another with skepticism.

Seeing this, Charlotte fought to keep her voice even and strong. "Now, move forward! Tell your Captain of what has transpired! My brother and I will stand beside you in the heat of battle, and when we have eradicated this evil, we will avenge those lost in the massacre at Highever!"

The men shouted one hail, then scattered to spread word and attend to their orders. The servants remained behind, comforting each other as they mourned and processed the news. A lady's maid shakily offered Charlotte hot water for a bath.

"I'm afraid we won't have time for it," Alistair interjected apologetically. "I was coming to tell you, it is time for us to go into the Wilds."

Sheathing her father's sword, Charlotte curtly agreed. "Let me just put some things in the tent, and I will join you."

As she turned to go, Alistair gently stopped her, his face kind.

"You were very strong," he told her quietly. "I'm sure your father and mother would have been proud."

She stilled momentarily, then nodded without saying a word. Charlotte withdrew briefly and reappeared, having discarded the Cousland blade to favor her daggers and longbow. The locket she had been toying with earlier was around her neck.

"I'm ready."


	5. Purses and Ponces

"And that's how I got the nickname Daveth McGhee! They never did find those three donkeys."

Daveth, a fellow recruit, grinned guilelessly, jogging alongside Charlotte as they departed for the Wilds. Barely three minutes in, and he was chattering away, telling her all manner of stories. She liked him immediately.

"Would you look at that? Five steps and overgrown already."

He wasn't wrong; Charlotte was momentarily overcome with the, well… Wildness. Every shade of green imaginable burst from climbing vines that tangled over tall, thick trees, their boughs extending so far as to blot out the sky. Above them, birds cawed and twittered, sounding the alarm. Up ahead, fronds erupted in long, luscious feathers, seeming to bar their way. And all around them, a whisper… the troubled murmurings of watchful eyes with no face.

Alistair led the party, all business, his longsword cautiously drawn. Behind him trotted a cross Ser Jory, who had badly received Alistair's rejection of his repeated suggestions for the party's form, excluding him from taking point with Alistair. When Ser Jory had the bad manners to question why, Alistair muttered something about defense against Darkspawn, and the knight finally had the sense to shut up.

Before broaching the gates, Ser Jory had heard Charlotte state her name to Daveth, and openly gaped.

"My lady!" Ser Jory stumbled forward, almost bowing. "It is an honor."

Irritated, Charlotte corrected him, "I am a fellow Warden, Ser Jory. Please none of that."

Daveth snickered. Flushed and indignant, Ser Jory looked upon him with distaste, and began badgering Alistair about the plan of attack.

Now, Ser Jory seemed resolved to snub her, or perhaps he honestly felt a need to get in her way. Every time Charlotte attempted to look closer at their surroundings, the knight would subtly move to block her, acting as a human shield. Under normal circumstances, this would have been substantially irritating. As a fellow recruit, it was maddening.

"Ooops, watch your step then. The lady's got delicate toes!" Ser Jory, blustering, pushed himself roughly off the ground, following a well-placed foot tangle from Charlotte. Daveth, grinning wickedly, gave her a knowing wink.

"Be quiet." Alistair did not even have time to be irritated; he extended his senses into the Wilds, looking for Darkspawn and keeping alert.

Chastened, Charlotte and Daveth fell into line, trotting along behind him. Ser Jory listened intently, mimicking Alistair; unable to hear anything, he studied Alistair nervously, then tried to match his focus with equal measure. A few purple moments later, he exhaled roughly and looked crosser than ever.

"So, Ser Knight, where are you from?" Daveth inquired cheerfully, ignoring the heavy silence surrounding Alistair.

After a moment's consideration, Ser Jory deigned to answer. "I hail from Redcliffe," he replied tartly. "I serve under Arl Eamon. He is a good man."

"Huh, so how did Duncan recruit you?"

Ser Jory's chest seemed to puff a little. "I won a tournament in Highever that was held by the Bann in Duncan's honor. I won the grand melee."

Confused, Charlotte inquired, "But why were you in Highever?"

"I met my wife there. I was in Arl Eamon's retinue when he attended King Maric's funeral; he gave me permission to serve him there and marry Helena one year ago." Ser Jory's face grew troubled, "I did not want to leave her; she is heavy with child. However," Ser Jory drew himself up again, now resolute, "Ferelden needs my blade, and I shall not falter."

Alistair cast one impatient look over his shoulder, but did not reprimand them further, so Charlotte continued the conversation.

"And you, Daveth? How did you come to be here?"

"Well, as I told you before, I grew up in a tiny village about a day's trip from 'ere. A tiny blot on a map! I've been in Denerim for, what… six years now?" He grinned wickedly, "Never liked it much, but there's more purses there than anywhere else!"

Ser Jory gasped in disapproval and moved slightly away from Daveth. Ahead, Alistair rolled his eyes.

"Purse?" Charlotte inquired, not understanding. A moment later, light dawned. "You're a cutpurse?!" She blurted.

"And a pickpocket, thank you very much!" Daveth sighed wistfully, "Or was any'ow."

"But… but how did that get you recruited?"

Again, he grinned. It seemed to be his trademark expression. "I cut Duncan's purse! He's alright, for an old bugger, and he can run. Just not as fast as me!" Chuckling, he added, "But the garrison caught up with me. They were going to string me up right there! But Duncan stopped them - he invoked the Right of Conscription and I got to give the garrison the bird while we was walkin' away."

Disgusted, Ser Jory shook his head and moved further forward.

"Aw, it's alright Ser Knight. Don't know why Duncan wants a recruit like me either! But 'e says finesse is important, and that I'm fast with a blade. Well, you can bet your boots that's true enough!"

Charlotte almost giggled. Just as Daveth opened his mouth again, Alistair abruptly halted, and held one hand up for silence.

The three of them hesitated, watching his face. As brave as each of them was, they had never laid eyes upon a Darkspawn, and Alistair had sternly warned them to be cautious before they left for the Wilds.

"They're brutal," he told them bluntly, "They've no minds of their own and will attack you without hesitation. Whatever you do to bring them down, do it quickly and do not underestimate their strength. They take much longer to die than a man, and their blood is poisonous. Do whatever you can to avoid direct contact with it, and once they are dead, each of you is to collect a small sample of it. Here," he produced three small glass bottles, each plugged with a cork. "Once they are full, we will return to camp."

"Alistair," Duncan appeared, nodding to the others. "There is one more task for you to complete on your expedition."

"Yes, Duncan?"

"There are documents of a greatly sensitive nature, left in an ancient Grey Warden archive in the Wilds. The scrolls are magically sealed to protect them. Alistair, I want you to retrieve these scrolls if you can."

"Scrolls?" Charlotte asked.

Duncan had to look down to address her, "Yes. Old treaties, if you're interested. Promises from allies around Ferelden to aid the Grey Wardens in the event of a true Blight."

Daveth was the first to voice a question all the recruits shared, "Does that mean we're in a Blight then?"

Cautiously, Duncan answered. "I suspect it may be… a good idea to have something to remind our allies of their promise, should we need them."

Now, Charlotte faced the unknown beside Alistair with nervous determination. Whatever her fears, or the reasons that brought her here, if Ferelden was threatened by a Blight, she would do what was necessary to stop it.

Alistair moved carefully down the path, hand still indicating they should stay back. A few tense minutes passed; suddenly, they were all startled by a strangled cry.

"Help, please!" Even from a distance, the voice sounded raspy.

The path curved around a small hill; Charlotte's nostrils were overwhelmed by the smell of blood and something burning. At the cusp of the hill, the path widened, and in the dirt an injured soldier crawled, clutching his bloodied side.

"Please, someone!"

As they got closer, Charlotte's eyes could not believe what they saw. Men's bodies littered the small field, some of them… on wooden pikes, their mouths open in loose-jawed terror. A horse was dead on one side of the path, its gut ripped open and pouring onto the ground. A few men's bodies had been lit on fire; others nearby lay in rivers of blood, the flesh of their necks torn where their heads had evidently been cleaved away.

Ser Jory turned white in the face of so much carnage; Daveth scowled with fury. When he tried to bend closer to the fallen soldier, Alistair stopped him, his own expression hard.

"Don't," he ordered. "He might be tainted."

Shocked, Charlotte protested. "But he is injured! Shouldn't we do something?"

Alistair studied her; finally, he bent to the crawling man and gently pushed him in the shoulder so he would turn on his side.

The soldier's breathing was labored, his face spattered with blood. Alistair slid off the man's helmet.

The man's eyes were coated with a thick, greenish grey glaze, his irises losing their brown color. Most of his face, previously disguised by the iron helm, was mottled and sickly, covered in black spots. The breath that came out of his throat wheezed, occasionally sounding like threatening growls.

"He is dead," Alistair told them, and before anyone could blink, he chopped off the man's head.

"Andraste's sword!" Daveth roared, "Was that really necessary?"

"Yes," Alistair replied, looking a little sick. "He was Tainted. He had ingested Darkspawn blood; he had already been suffering for about a day."

"By the Maker…what was he turning into?" Ser Jory stared down at the man's severed head, obviously ill at ease.

"A ghoul," Alistair replied; he glanced at Charlotte. Her eyes were enormous, and she was very pale, but she seemed to be rallying a bit more than the others.

Daveth also seemed to be gathering his strength; Ser Jory, however, was more perturbed. Looking around him at the fallen men, he demanded, "How, how can our small band defeat any darkspawn if these seasoned men were massacred?" He glared at Alistair reproachfully, "We will surely die."

Before Alistair could argue, Charlotte interjected. "This is part of our recruitment, Ser Jory. That said," she looked him dead in the eye, her face hardening, "If you are a coward, we can always leave you here, and you can go back."

Furiously, Ser Jory drew his blade. Quickly, Daveth stepped in front of Charlotte and Alistair raised an arm between them. "Ser Jory!" he commanded the enraged knight's attention, "We will not die. That is why I am here; if I sense a horde that is too large for our party, we will withdraw. Now, sheath your blade at once."

Moments of tense anticipation passed; Daveth was crouched and ready, his hand hovering over a dagger in his belt. Irritably, Charlotte waited behind him, preferring to defend herself, but also aware she had gone too far.

Finally, Ser Jory did as he was told, chest still heaving. Alistair went to reprimand Charlotte, but she beat him to the punch.

"Ser Jory," she murmured, bowing slightly from behind Daveth, "I should not have said such a thing. Please accept my apology for speaking out of turn." Regretfully, she murmured, "I do not know what came over me."

Curtly, the knight nodded and went ahead. Normally, Alistair would have stopped him, but he sensed no Darkspawn nearby and wanted to allow him some time to cool off. Daveth followed; once he was out of earshot, Alistair took the opportunity to grab Charlotte.

Startled, she took back her arm and glared up at him. To his surprise, Alistair was not intimidated.

"You may have apologized, but that doesn't wipe away what you've done. Ser Jory is an idiot; we all know it, but he earned his right to be here same as you, and that demands some respect. Your actions affect the safety of all of us. If you cause discord among the group again, you will not be recruited. Understood?"

Truthfully, Alistair wasn't sure he had the right to make such a decision, but he hated being a leader and was furious she had put him in the position of protecting a discontent party. Bad blood between comrades put the entire group at risk and, whatever she had been through, she had no right to possibly cause someone to do something stupid and end up dead.

Even though her first instinct was defiance, Charlotte knew he was right. She had surprised even herself with what she had said, attributing it to the shock of the last few days. Regardless, she knew what was at stake, and her remark had been careless. Though it cost her, she nodded her understanding; satisfied, Alistair forged ahead, not even bothering to look back.

* * *

_McGhee is a surname that has a history in Scotland and England. Daveth's accent sounds vaguely Cockney, so I wanted a surname that nodded to that accent, but McGhee just seemed to flow well. There is a quote of one William McGhie that made me think of Daveth:_

_"a good-natured man, who has no aversion to be a butt, although he takes care to have a good premium for every arrow that he receives."_

_The traditional crest of the McGhies/McGhees has three leopards heads - the reference to three donkeys. Plus, losing three donkeys just seems like something Daveth would do. _

_Also, I hate Ser Jory. He's an unforgivable ponce and cowardly throughout the entire recruitment. He's supposed to be a knight, for heaven's sake, and Daveth has more guts than him the entire time! (With the exception of when they first encounter Morrigan, but everyone has their moments)._


	6. Toads and Taint

The trees continued to whisper. The moment they went silent, the first troupe of darkspawn descended on them.

Charlotte remembered Alistair describing the first time he had fought Darkspawn; "I wasn't prepared for the horror of them." He'd told her. Looking into the ghoulish face of the one coming at her, she knew what he meant.

She was attacked by a Genlock; a barrel-chested brother to the tall Hurlock, who charged at Alistair. The first thing Charlotte noticed was how the grass died under their feet; in small patches, it simply blackened and folded over. The Genlock screamed its displeasure, raising an axe, his maw an open hole torn into the decaying flesh of his face. Small horns littered the crown of his head, drawing attention away from his wide, lidless eyes that mimicked that sickly greenish color of the dead solider. Each of the darkspawn were protected by crudely assembled armor, their weapons dark from the touch of their taint.

"Flank them!" Alistair shouted. "Don't touch their blood!"

Daggers clashed with axe; crossing them together and pushing it away with all her might, Charlotte rolled to the left as the axe whistled its descent into the damp earth. Roaring, the Genlock attempted to jimmy it up, its nostrils flaring. Charlotte danced a quick circle around the smaller Darkspawn, jabbing it with her daggers. Its flesh was tough and thick, almost catching one dagger when it turned to roar at her, forcing her to wrench the dagger out and roll away.

"Watch it, mistress!" Daveth threw a dagger into the beast's throat, cutting its scream short with a warbled grunt.

The monster's blood streamed onto the ground. It was disgusting; thick and black, with tinges of red. It looked sticky, like oil, and smelled terrible.

Deciding to play it safe, Charlotte drew her bow and began to fire. The Genlock was pelted with arrows, but it seemed to recover each time, pushing angrily forward. Alistair was knocking down the Hurlock he had been fighting with his shield, the massive crash of his force echoing off the beast's chest as it slammed into the ground. Without hesitation, he cleaved his sword across its chest, opening a large cavity and killing the beast with a final blow to the head.

Growling in frustration and nearly out of arrows, Charlotte discarded her bow and backed away. The first Genlock was dead; a second was charging. Daveth panted nearby, two daggers short, clutching his short bow in one hand. Alistair had moved across the fighting field to assist Ser Jory, who was struggling against two Hurlocks. They needed to act quickly or this would give other Darkspawn time to find them. Charlotte studied the landscape around them, thinking. There were a few trees over the clearing; in the distance, there was a large hill preceded by a crumbling stone arch. The hill would have provided them a tactical advantage, but the darkspawn had descended from it, so there was no guarantee it wasn't harboring more. Daveth was also almost out of arrows and, at risk of becoming tainted, could not retrieve any previously used. There had to be another way. And then she had an idea.

Charlotte framed her mouth with two hands. "Oi!" She shouted, calling the attention of the Genlock away from Daveth, who looked knackered. "Ugly face! Come here!"

Confused, the Genlock paused in its rush at Daveth, blinking. Evidently, it decided Charlotte was the better target, roaring again as it found its new path and charged at her.

Charlotte waited; she had to time this exactly right. The other Genlock they had killed had left its axe in the ground. It had managed to significantly loosen it; she only hoped it had loosened it enough. If Alistair was right, and these things were stupid, this one wouldn't see her coming.

Once the beast was close, she took off. "What are you doing?!" Daveth shouted, chasing after her. Alarmed, Alistair turned from the Hurlock dying before him and saw her, faster than an arrow, streaking across the clearing.

"HEY!" Alistair took off after them both. Panting, Ser Jory followed, shaking the blood off his sword.

Being careful not to trip and fall over, Charlotte reached out and grasped the handle of the axe, ripping it out with all her strength. It immediately came loose with a loud sucking noise and she kept running for the wide trunk of a nearby tree. The Genlock mindlessly followed, growling and then screaming with frustration as it failed to catch up with her. All her concentration was on the tree. They couldn't afford to fight many more darkspawn in the state they were in. This one needed to die, and quickly.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" Alistair was beside himself – she was going to run headlong into that tree! "STOP! STOP!" But none of them could reach her, and then…

As quick as lightening, Charlotte turned. Just as she was about to crash into the tree, she nimbly grasped a lower branch and swung. The Genlock, shocked, staggered to a halt, just as she came tearing around the trunk, the axe raised in one hand.

With a scream and massive blow, Charlotte sank axe into the Genlock's neck. The axe sliced through the Genlock's head with a sickening crunch and buried itself into the tree's trunk. The Genlock twitched and went still.

Abruptly, the branch in Charlotte's hand snapped and she was propelled onto the ground with a thump. Daveth, Alistair and Ser Jory skittered to an astonished halt, all staring between the dead Darkspawn and Charlotte, sitting on the ground with red hands and a broken tree branch.

After a moment's breathless silence, Alistair recovered his outrage. "You're mad!" He spluttered. "What made you even think of that?"

To everyone's amazement, she broke out into a huge smile. "We were running out of arrows. You said we couldn't touch anything with their blood, and I didn't want us to lose all our weapons. So I improvised." She bounced a little. "That was fun!"

Daveth roared with laughter, offering to help her up. Ser Jory looked flushed and cross. Alistair seemed to grow more upset.

Charlotte dusted herself off, "If he didn't die, he would have been stuck to the tree." She pointed out. "It was a win-win."

"Excuse me," he answered finally, "my heart has stopped beating." Alistair turned to plod away, then turned back, "Please don't do that again." He walked away, heading for the hill.

Chuckling, Daveth clapped her on the back, "Excellent work, my lady! You're alright, even if you are mad!" Ser Jory "harrumphed!" at both of them and followed Alistair.

Charlotte was unperturbed. She had done something, she had worth all her own. It didn't escape her how the animosity of ten minutes ago had been wiped away by the battle, either. For the first time in her life, Charlotte felt in place, like she was more than an unhappy Teyrn's daughter. As far as she was concerned, that was worth a thousand darkspawn.

* * *

From there on, Alistair watched her uneasily, his hazel eyes darting over every so often to make sure she wasn't going to do anything crazy. Charlotte wasn't too bothered; she knew it had been a bold move, but her blood pumped through her veins all the better for it, and she felt her fear of the darkspawn significantly lessen as the continued their expedition into the Wilds.

Each of their little vials of darkspawn blood were now full. They had fought another group on the east side of the forest, including an Emissary, who had chuckled with a gloating "huh, huh, huh" as it cast its first dark spell, its large head framed with a threatening-looking headdress.

"Darkspawn can do magic?!" Ser Jory seemed a little beside himself.

"Only crude magic," Alistair answered, wiping off his blade. "But it's still effective. You don't want to get too close to an Emissary if you can help it. Just kill it as fast as you can."

Following this encounter, Alistair eased up on her a little, evidently comforted by her lack of antics. They proceeded to seek out the old Grey Warden archive, occasionally having to dispatch small packs of wolves and even a large Shade who angrily declared himself Gazarath before attacking.

"Well, that was bracing!" Alistair studied the pile of ashes Gazarath left behind. "Normally Shades don't have the manners to introduce themselves. How polite of him."

"I never knew such abominations existed," Ser Jory seemed to have moved beyond disgusted into something else entirely.

"Actually," Alistair corrected cheerfully, "That would require a mage. An abomination is a demon in a mage's body, which they can access from the Fade. Our friend Gazarath was most likely a hunger or sloth demon, although I would guess hunger first from the vigorous way he attacked us. Slothful shades aren't usually vigorous."

Ser Jory wrinkled his face in distaste, "They are all abominations, as they are not of this world and should be eliminated."

"That may be," Alistair agreed, "But right now we have other fish to fry. Follow me."

Curving around another hill was a thinly laid out path. Evidence of the Wilder folk was scarce, but Charlotte had noticed some strange-looking piles of rocks and arranged leaves. When she pointed them out, Daveth enlightened her.

"Signs of the Chasind," he explained, pointing to a particular display of rocks. "Very hard to find, normally. You've got good eyes. There's talk of them leading to some secret cache, but knowing folks like them, it's probably nothing but dirt and a few pieces of leather. Not worth looking for, if you ask me."

When they topped the crest of the next hill, they found a dead missionary lying on the floor of a long-forgotten stone altar; how he died was unclear. In his possession were two letters; nearby, stones neatly lined the pit of a long-extinguished campfire.

The first letter was addressed to his son; he pleaded with him to understand his mission to spread the Chant to the ignorant Chasind. The missionary, who called himself Rigby in his signature, expressed confusion at the Chasind's recent hasty departure from the Wilds, positing that their rumors of Darkspawn were a cover for something else entirely, such as their resistance to the word of Andraste.

"Poor dolt," Alistair shook his head, "He should have known better."

Charlotte read the other note. By now Rigby had come to realize the darkspawn threat, only it was too late. He requested that whomever should find his body would recover a small lockbox buried next to the campfire and return it to his wife, Jetta.

Without a word, Charlotte went to the pit. She kicked the dirt around the stones, looking for evidence of recently turned earth. When she found what looked like a marked spot, she quickly dug it out with a dagger. The lockbox was small, but it would still be awkward to carry. Not caring, Charlotte retrieved her quiver and looked inside. Her long bow was slung across her back, the quiver was empty. It probably wouldn't be much extra weight. She deposited the box into her quiver, secured the strap across her chest, then repositioned her bow to help provide some extra security.

"This is a waste of time!" Ser Jory complained, "Leave it!"

Alistair regarded him harshly, and he grew quiet. Daveth didn't understand, but saw the knowing expression of Alistair and chose not to question it. Once Charlotte was finished, she rejoined the others and they moved on.

There was one more hill to conquer before they reached the archive. Two Hurlocks and a Genlock charged at them from the top of the hill; they were efficiently dispatched, with Charlotte kicking one clear off the side of the embankment and into the jagged rocks of the river below.

The archive itself bore the impressive visage of all of Ostagar's fortresses. It was ancient Tevinter in architecture, and dwarven in make, with light grey stone that still glowed a little in the sun. The front of the building had crumbled away, while the walls that still rose high and uneven were being reclaimed by the lush arms of nature, the floors cracking to reveal veins of fresh earth. They moved cautiously forward, wary of further Darkspawn, and began searching the grand chamber before them for any signs of the sealed chest.

"I don't understand," Alistair looked around in frustration, "They should be right here!" He indicated the open chest they had found, broken in pieces, at the bottom corner where a grand staircase met the wall. Above him rose the remains of a short tower, the back wall of the fortress also broken away.

"Well, well, what have we here?" A sultry female voice purred from the opening above them. Alistair whirled around.

She descended lazily down the steps, her eyes never leaving them. Charlotte could see she wore unusual clothing; pieces of fabric and leather were draped scantily over her round breasts, held up by protective shoulder pads, one of which was lined with lurid blue-green feathers. Her skirt was long, also in stitched pieces of leather, and she carried with her a stave that clutched a clear crystal ball in a wooden claw at the top. Around her neck was an elaborate necklace, and her eyes gleamed with amusement.

"Are you a vulture, I wonder?" She smiled, continuing her slow, measured descent. "A scavenger, poking amidst bones that have long since been picked clean?"

She reached the bottom of the staircase and approached them with the fluid grace of a cat, her eyes never leaving them. Her voice was smoky and enthralling. "Or merely an intruder, coming to these Darkspawn infested Wilds of mine in search of easy prey?" Charlotte couldn't stop staring at her eyes; while her hair was a normal, albeit beautiful, shade of chestnut brown, her eyes were the unsettling yellow of a hawk.

The woman came to a stop, her expression changing. "What say you? Scavenger, or intruder?" she demanded.

Alistair was agog. When no one answered her, the woman's patience thinned, and she hmphed under her breath. Hesitantly, Charlotte stepped forward.

"We are neither. We are Grey Wardens."

Seeming amused, she smiled crookedly. Slowly, she began to move around them. The men jumped nervously back; fascinated, Charlotte followed her, keeping a cautious distance.

"I have been watching your progress for some time," she confessed, sounding lighthearted. The cadence of her voice did not sound like that of someone of barbaric nature; it sounded…. Educated, even old-fashioned, like some of the older ladies at court. "'Where do they go?' I wondered, 'Why are they here?'"

She reached the opening of one of the side walls that had given way to nature. She turned back to them, her face becoming curious. "And now… you have disturbed ashes that none have touched for so long… Why is that?" Her full lips smiled invitingly, the yellow eyes lingering on each of the men.

"Don't answer her," Alistair advised, stepping forward. "She looks Chasind, and that means others may be nearby."

"Woooh," the strange woman mocked richly, "You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you!" She raised her arms as if a great bird, then grinned sardonically.

"Yes," Alistair murmured thoughtfully, "Swooping would be… bad."

"She's a witch of the Wilds, she is!" Daveth declared fearfully. "She'll turn us into toads!"

"Witch of the Wilds?" The woman tested the title as if she had never heard it. "Such idle fancies, those legends, have you no minds of your own?"

After a moment's consideration, the woman pointed her chin decisively at Charlotte. "You there, women do not frighten like little boys." Moving to more conciliatory tones, she offered, "Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine."

Charlotte didn't know what this woman wanted, but she had a sense that she meant them no harm. Her face was intelligent, if calculating, and something in Charlotte trusted her.

Stepping closer, Charlotte introduced herself, "I am Charlotte." Inspired, Charlotte added. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Pleased, the woman smiled. "Now that is a proper, civil greeting! Even here in the Wilds. You may call me Morrigan." Her voice nearly cooed.

"Now, shall I guess your purpose? You sought something in that chest, something that is here no longer?"

"'Here no longer?'" Alistair repeated with disdain, making his voice high and mockingly sultry. He pointed an accusing finger, "You stole them, didn't you! You're… some kind of… sneaky witch thief!"

He awaited her answer, expression outraged, while Morrigan merely stared as if she had never seen anything like him.

"How very eloquent," she quipped finally, "How does one steal from dead men?"

Disappointed, Alistair grumbled, "Quite easily, it seems." Gaining back his authority, Alistair sternly continued. "Those documents are Grey Warden property; I suggest you return them."

Wrinkling her nose in irritation, Morrigan replied haughtily, "I will not, for it 'twas not I who removed them. Invoke a name that means nothing here if you wish" she raised her chin, "I am not threatened."

Intervening before Alistair could speak, Charlotte inquired, "Do you happen to know who did remove them?"

Morrigan uncrossed her arms and softened her voice, "Twas my mother, in fact."

Charlotte nodded, her face understanding. "Could you take us to her?"

Morrigan considered, "Hmm," then smiled. "There is a sensible request." She giggled and her eyes twinkled. "I like you."

Alistair remained uneasy, "I'd be careful. First it's 'I like you," he made his voice high and silky, then it returned to normal, "But then ZAP! Frog time."

Daveth looked nervous, "She'll put us all in a pot, she will! Just you watch!"

Ser Jory scowled, and Charlotte rushed to reassure them. "We need those documents, we can't return without them. What else would you have us do?"

"I say we go with her, I'm freezing." Ser Jory shivered.

As far as Morrigan was concerned, that decided it. "Follow me then, if it pleases you."

* * *

_I would like to credit Arsinoe Blassenville for the description: gloating "huh,huh,huh" of the darkspawn chuckle. I read it in one of Arsinoe's stories and it never left my head. _


	7. Glorious!

"Your Royal Highness, the Teyrn has requested to see you."

Sighing, Cailan rolled his eyes, then turned to address his guard. "You may tell him that he can wait. I am going to speak with Duncan and then I will meet the general near the old temple following the Grey Wardens' Joining. "

Looking discomfited, the guard hesitated and then opened his mouth. Cailain regarded him coldly, "Dismissed."

Clearly unhappy, the soldier left, shutting the canvas flap of Cailan's tent behind him. Cailan shifted irritably in his chair.

After he had assured himself that Loghain wasn't about to come thundering into the tent, demanding his presence, Cailan opened the locked chest he kept near his cot. Inside it he stowed those items most precious to him, including his father's famous Lyrium-enchanted blade. What he sought today, however, was the most sensitive correspondence in the Kingdom.

_Dear Celene, we will lead Thedas into the future, you and I._

Ah, it was sweet to know that his vision was so close at hand. Celene had not only been amenable to his suggestive powers, but eager to submit, and he could not be happier. Soon, Fereldan and Orlais would move from being betrayed brothers and sisters to a unified family and empire. An empire of which he would be Emperor.

It gave him such pleasure to imagine it; all the luxuries and culture of Orlais, married with the simple sensibility and sturdiness of his Ferelden. He would marry the two together in every sense of the word, including taking Celene as his wife. It was a pity that Anora had to be put aside, but she would be handsomely provided for. He was sure that, sensible woman that she was, Anora would understand and see the necessity of his actions. After all, she had been unable to produce an heir, what did she expect would happen?

This would be harder to explain to her father, Teyrn Loghain. Quietly, Cailan grumbled. He was an old man, no longer in touch with the needs of his country, living in a long-forgotten past that no longer served Cailan. Loghain may have been indispensable to Maric, but Cailan was not his father. He had his own legends to make and knew in his heart that this was the way. First his father had defeated Orlais as the Rebel King. Now, Cailan would foster peace and unite their countries, healing them of their wounded pasts. It would be magnificent.

Outside, Cailan could hear the preparations continuing. Thinking of fighting alongside the Grey Wardens made him tingle. He smiled gleefully into his goblet of cider as he imagined the glory of it; Duncan at his side, commanding the men together, defeating the Darkspawn. Cailan popped another chunk of cheese into his mouth and smiled with satisfaction. Once this battle was over, Cailan would have associated himself with the greatest of all legends, and become enough of one himself – the conquering hero who saved Ferelden from the Blight! – that it would be easy to move forward on Orlais. The Landsmeet would simply have to obey him.

Hmm… but it would be easier if that dratted old man would allow Empress Celene's Wardens to assist them. If the nobles of Ferelden heard that Orlesian Wardens helped cast down the Blight in Ferelden, they would be hard put to argue against him, after all was said and done. No matter, though. Either way, he would be victorious. Of this he was certain.

"Your Majesty, the Warden-Commander is here, as you requested."

Eagerly, Cailan put his drink aside. "Show him in!" Quickly, he stowed away his papers and rose to provide a proper greeting.

Duncan wandered into the royal tent, looking a little bewildered. "Your Highness, does something trouble you? How may I be of assistance?" Duncan bowed, one eyebrow arched in askance.

"No, not at all, Duncan! I am glad to see you. I wish to discuss my vision of your Order after all this is done. Please sit."

Duncan sat, clearly uncertain. Cailan almost chortled to himself; he was going to be so pleased, once Cailan was finished telling him!

Cailan sat in front of him, brimming with excitement. "Well, Duncan, I would like us to be frank with one another. Does that suit you?"

"….Certainly, your Majesty."

Beaming, Cailan clapped his hands on his knees. "Good man. Then I'll get straight to the point. My father invited your order back into our land. I want to expand upon it even more. You are more important than any order of soldiers, the most elite of all men – you're heroes! Without you, all races would fall to the threat of the Darkspawn. To that end, I want you and your men by my side at the castle."

"Uh, pardon me for asking, your Majesty…"

Rising, Cailan waved a nonchalant hand. "You may continue."

Duncan nodded, "Your Majesty, there are already apartments in Denerim within the castle. Could you be more… specific?"

Cailan chuckled and poured them each a cider, coming back to hand one to Duncan, who looked surprised. "No, no, I don't want any servants overhearing this. I can certainly pour some cider to protect a secret this wonderful! Yes, you are right. Apartments already exist within my castle, but I would like to expand upon them, add more members to your order." Leaning forward, Cailan announced dramatically, "I would like to provide you resources the likes of which you have never before dreamed! Not even my father could have offered them!" He sat back, goblet on his knee, legs splayed to emphasize his ease in the knowledge of his winning hand.

Duncan studied him, trying to quell his own alarm. He wasn't sure what this meant precisely, but he knew it was something big, and probably something that rested on the assumption the encroaching darkspawn horde was nothing but an unusually large raid, instead of a Blight. Duncan, however, knew differently.

"Your Majesty, this is… an extraordinary offer. I will be glad to consider it further with you after we have ascertained the extent of the Blight."

Cailan roared with laughter, "Dear Duncan! I assure you, whatever happens, we will be successful. I have all the faith in Thedas that your order will sort this out. And I will be by your side. To victory!" Cailan raised his cup, his smile as sunny and free as it was when he was just a baby. Duncan remembered him so well from then, and how much he adored his increasingly absent father… until he just disappeared.

Duncan took pity on Cailan; although his heart stirred restlessly and he longed to say more, he was bound by duty to protect the Grey Wardens' secrets and he would have to have faith in Loghain Mac Tir and his own men, no matter how few they were. Cailan may chase legends, but it wasn't his fault why he did, and whatever his fantasies, Duncan was only concerned with defending Ferelden. For now.

"To Ferelden." He raised his goblet, and they clinked.

"To glory!" For Cailan, it was the sweetest cider.


	8. The Joining

The encounter with Morrigan's mother was unnerving, to say the least. She cackled loudly after most of her statements, which in themselves were mostly cryptic non sequiturs that alarmed Daveth and made Alistair raise his eyebrows until they nearly disappeared into his spiky hairline. The most disturbing of all, however, had been her open fascination with Charlotte.

"Hmmm…" her vivid yellow eyes were wide, offset by white stringy hair that framed a face leaned uncomfortably close to Charlotte's. "So much is undecided for you… so much yet to come. You will be great, that much I can see… but maybe terrible too…"

Bewildered, Charlotte glanced at Morrigan for some sort of explanation; in response, she looked exquisitely bored and yawned.

"Yes, I believe it will be interesting to watch you. Huh, I believe." As if startled by another member of the conversation, the old woman looked abruptly into the empty space next to Charlotte. "Do I? Why," she grinned toothily at Charlotte, "it seems I do. Hahahaha!"

After this bemusing confession, she produced the three scrolls, much to Alistair's distress, and informed them the seals had worn off long ago. Apparently, out of goodwill, she had deigned to protect them.

"_You_… you protected them?" Alistair asked, baffled.

The old woman regarded him shrewdly, "And why not?" she demanded. Alistair babbled an apology, then fell into discomfited silence. Nodding with satisfaction, the witch addressed Charlotte.

"Now, take those to your Grey Wardens. Tell them this Blight's threat is greater than they realize."

Puzzled, Charlotte inquired. "What do you mean?"

Speculatively, the woman shrugged. "Either it means the threat is more, or they realize less. I know not which. Hahahaha!"

With that wisdom imparted, the group was dismissed and led back to camp by a disinterested Morrigan, who sneered at Alistair and waved dreamily at Charlotte as she departed.

"Mad! The pair of them, absolutely loony! Well, at least we got the treaties back. Duncan will be pleased." Relieved to have returned to camp's safe harbor, Alistair grinned happily at Charlotte and victoriously waved one of the scrolls.

"May I see that?" Charlotte was fascinated by the ancient animal skin in her comrade's hand. Obligingly, Alistair handed it to her.

The scroll was soft, but its creases were rough against her skin. Even as a Mundane, she could feel the distant remains of a powerful magic left on the hide; her fingertips were vaguely tingling. Carefully, she unrolled it and read the beautifully executed lettering:

_In War, Victory_

_In Peace, Vigilance_

_In Death, Sacrifice_

_It is hereby declared by the Dalish peoples of Ferelden that, in the event of a Blight upon this land, we will come to the aid of the Order of the Grey Wardens and fight the unspeakable evil known as the Darkspawn. We will lend them our bow and arrows; raise our swords to their cause; and cast magic that may heal friends and kill foes to prevent the loss of all life, dwarven, elven and human alike. So it is written, so we agree._

_Lath sulevin_

_Lath araval ena_

_Arla vent u vir mahvir_

_Melana 'nehn_

_Enasal ir sa lethalin_

_El'mi'na_

Below the Elvish verse, the signatures of Dalish clan leaders extended to the end of the scroll. Thoughtfully, Charlotte rolled it back up.

"Interesting read?" Alistair accepted the scroll and sat gratefully down next to the enormous fire, warming his hands. Ser Jory and Daveth continued past them to their tents, obviously eager for a rest.

"Very." Charlotte agreed, sitting by the fire. "If my Elvish serves me, that poem at the end reads, _Be certain in need and the path will emerge to a home tomorrow and time will again be the joy it once was – our blade is yours._"

Astonished, Alistair asked, "You can read Elvish?!"

Charlotte smiled, a little chagrined. "Yes; my grandfather was very close to me and he loved language. Not sure why, really, but he taught me since I was a little girl. His book of languages in Thedas is one of my most prized possessions."

Impressed, Alistair chuckled. "Well, you're far more intelligent than I am. I can barely string together sentences in the King's Tongue!"

"Isn't that the truth!" A large man clapped Alistair so hard on the back he nearly pitched face-first into the campfire. The man laughed, throwing his head back and clutching a large, round belly.

"Hello, Merek." Alistair grumbled, but his eyes were dancing and he was fighting a smile. Merek sat down heavily next to his youngest comrade, twinkling at Charlotte. "Ey! And who is this fine young lady yer harassing, Alistair?" He had a voice so loud and deep it boomed; the effect of that and his hairy face reminded Charlotte of a big bear.

"Harrassing!" Alistair squeaked. "I'm supposed to talk to her, she's our newest recruit. This is Lady – "

Charlotte cut across Alistair, leaning past him to hold out her hand to Merek. "I'm just Charlotte, now, if you don't mind. It's nice to meet you, Merek. Are you part giant?"

Merek roared, "Ha! And a sense of 'umor! Alistair, I like 'er already."

"You need to mind your manners, Merek. She's much too young for the likes of you." A tall, lean archer bent on one knee near Merek, bestowing Charlotte with a kind smile. He was bald with elaborate tattoos on his face and fur linings on the top of his shoulders.

"Borin!" Merek barked, "Maker, ya move quietly! Do you weigh more than five pounds?"

"Indeed, it is challenging for you to hear over the loud sound of your own voice." Borin winked at Charlotte, who smiled in return, "I can imagine it makes it difficult to anticipate your more stealthy foes. Perhaps that is why Duncan entrusts you with so many ogres?"

"Huh! At least I can take 'em."

Charlotte giggled. They bickered like old women!

"And what's that, lass? Do you not believe me?"

"Oh no," she made her eyes enormous, the picture of innocence. "I can only imagine that they find their match in a large man such as yourself." Merek swelled; behind him, Borin snickered.

"And who is this charming young lady?" Another gentleman lowered himself next to Charlotte, one hand holding a silver bowl from the food tent. For the first time, Alistair looked unhappy.

He was very good-looking, Charlotte noticed. Dark, thick hair and big eyes with a strong jaw and nose. He studied Charlotte with open interest then smiled brilliantly, flashing white, straight teeth.

"Allow me to introduce myself, I am Althalos Albelin. And who are you, my dear?" Feeling a little smarmed, Charlotte leaned back, her smile brittle.

"I am Charlotte Cousland, the newest recruit. Please, allow me to make room for you." Charlotte scooted away down the log that had been placed by the fire, nearly bumping into Alistair, who looked amazed.

"Cousland?" Athalos' eyes widened, "As in Teyrn Cousland?"

Internally, Charlotte cursed herself. It had been habit to use her surname; she used to do it with men at the Landsmeet and in the market at Amaranthine to deter their advances. Not that she had been seeking the particular attentions of any one man; more that she had been trying to avoid those of individuals whose intentions she sensed to be less than honorable. And this man reeked the unmistakable stench of a cad.

Before Charlotte could reply, Alistair fiercely reprimanded him. "That is none of your concern. She is a Grey Warden, just as you and I are. Leave her be."

Althalos raised his hands in defense, "My apologies! I only meant to know whom I should be paying my respects to, if we are sitting with Ferelden's finest at our campfire."

Merek glared at the young man, "Why don't you go actually make yerself useful fer once instead of botherin' new recruits?"

Rising, Althalos grinned wolfishly and shrugged. "I might, but as the son of a servant, you can imagine my dislike for work. Isn't that right, _Lady_ Cousland?"

_Albelin. _Now she remembered; his family had served Arl Bryland's for generations. His father was a good man and Arl Bryland's head servant; she'd always heard he had a son, but apparently he hadn't taken to the family business.

Flushing, Charlotte remembered the betrothal letter. _And now we will be sisters, you and I. How delightful! _Charlotte shivered.

If things had been different, this man's family would have helped Charlotte run her household. Now that she was a Grey Warden, she would be serving alongside him – and all his resentment and smarminess as well.

"No, I'm afraid not, Warden Althalos. I knew your father, and he never turned away from a day of work in his life. It must be something within you."

Althalos looked furious, but said nothing. He turned heel and stalked off, casting aside the iron bowl into the dust, where it rolled with a _pank! _and settled upside down a few feet away.

Borin was impressed, "I've never seen him so angry! And by the hand of a lady, no less! Normally he just charms them."

Charlotte's lip nearly curled, but she remembered her mother's training too well. "I hate men like him; they think they're so entitled."

"Well, ya certainly dealt with him, lass! Although I'd be careful from now on, he's one to hold grudges. But yer alright with me!" As if to prove it, Merek slapped her heartily on the back, knocking the wind out of her. "Let's get something ta eat!"

The men lead her to the Camp Mess and all plopped heavily down onto the dining benches, where Bridget materialized with bowls in her hands a few moments later. Charlotte stared into the teeming portion of meat stew and felt a little nauseous after so much excitement at the thought of food.

"Rn't 'oo 'oin 'o eet 'at?" Alistair asked, his cheeks full like a squirrel before the first frost.

Rather than answering, Charlotte picked up a spoon and inquired of the group. "Do you really fight ogres?"

Merek nodded somberly, "Aye. They're very large and unbelievably strong. Ya must be extra careful if ya decide to fight one. Ey, Bridge, do you have any ale?"

Merek accepted the tankard gratefully and drank while Borin attempted to reassure Charlotte, "You look like a deft fighter; there are tricks you can use which make an ogre's size a disadvantage for the creature. I wouldn't worry if you have to face one. If nothing else, you'll have all of us to fight at your side."

"How many Grey Wardens are there in Ferelden?"

"Eh, about twenty," Merek wiped a considerable amount of foam from his beard. "Duncan 'as had a worse time than a Chantry priestess in a whorehouse recruitin' since King Maric was lost at sea. Fereldens don't believe we're needed anymore."

"Foolish, how little they know of such things, and yet they still make judgments." Borin looked angrily into his food, his narrow face sharpening. Charlotte struggled not to blush at the mention of a whorehouse.

"Alright, young friend. It will all work out in the end. Once they've realized what we must do, they will come to our side again." Merek shook Borin's shoulder reassuringly, "Man grows used to everything; sometimes he needs remindin' of things!"

Alarmed, Alistair looked at them both and then Charlotte as if in warning.

"Pardon me, miss," Merek offered sincerely, his beard quivering and still a bit foamy from the ale. "I shouldn'ta said as much in front of ya, but I'm guessing yer a strong lass. You'll know soon enough. And don't you worry!" He slapped his massive hand on the table, "We'll all work together!"

Borin smiled kindly again, and they all rose from the table, thanking Bridget and rubbing their stomachs.

"Off with you!" she flapped her hands, trying to reach their bowls. "I've got to prepare dinner and I don't want you lot finishing it off before it's even started!"

The men trundled outside, Charlotte following quietly behind them. Once they had exited the tent, Merek slapped Alistair in the back again and wished Charlotte luck. Borin surprised her by offering the blessing of his Gods, then nodded at Alistair and walked away. Both departed side-by-side back into the Grey Warden encampment.

"Merek is fun, isn't he?" Alistair grinned.

"Yes, he has a kind soul. Where is Borin from? I've never seen tattoos like that before."

"Borin is from an Avvar tribe in the mountains. His family encountered a horde of darkspawn once and they all died, except for him. Duncan was not far at the time and found him, tainted with darkspawn blood. He saved his life by making him a Grey Warden."

_But how? _Charlotte wondered. She knew better than to ask; Alistair already looked uncomfortable, like he had told her too much.

At that moment, an enthusiastic barking captured their attention and Mastodon came bounding up, his pink tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth in a toothy grin. Ser Jory and Daveth were behind him.

"I see from the scrolls you were successful. Well done, Alistair." Duncan joined the group, his demeanor muted.

Suddenly, Alistair was serious; he cast a worried look at Charlotte and asked Duncan, "Are we to begin the ritual?"

Duncan nodded, "It is time. The mages have been preparing while you were in the Wilds."

Ser Jory looked uneasily at Duncan, while Daveth (much improved now that he didn't fear an amphibious transformation) stood, at the ready.

"Alistair, please escort them to the old Temple. I will meet you there." Without further instruction, Duncan accepted the vials of Darkspawn blood from Alistair and addressed Charlotte. "I will take Mastodon to the kennels. He will be safe there until after the Joining."

Suddenly, Charlotte was afraid. The tone of Duncan's voice suggested a longer parting and she bent quickly to scratch Mastodon's head. "Alright, boy. You be good for the kennel master, now. You promise?"

Mastodon glared suspiciously at Duncan and Alistair; the latter shifted on his feet and looked uncomfortable.

"It's alright, boy. I know what I am doing. Now, you have your orders. Go with Duncan."

Mastodon whined.

Charlotte stood abruptly and raised a commanding eyebrow. This look was her final warning; reluctantly, Mastodon heeded his mistress and trailed disconsolately after the Warden-Commander, glancing fearfully over one shoulder.

"Big baby, he'll be fine." Charlotte carefully ignored how hard her heart had started pounding.

"Yes, he will." Alistair agreed. They set off.

The old temple turned out to be the derelict space in which Charlotte had first met Alistair. It had been grand once, with arches that extended like wide eyes into the blue sky. A stone ramp led to the circular tower which now stood open to the elements. Alistair waited with them there, growing increasingly stone-faced.

Ser Jory seemed unable to tolerate the tension any longer. "Warden Alistair, what is this? Why are you looking so concerned?"

"The Joining is a… tough ritual. There is some… risk involved."

"The more I hear about this "Joining," Ser Jory complained, "The less I like it." Angrily, he glared at Alistair.

Daveth made an impatient noise in the back of his throat, "Are you blubbering again?"

"Why all these damn tests? Have I not earned my place?"

Equally impatient, Charlotte retorted, "What, you think that winning a grand melee earns you your place?"

Alistair gave her a warning look.

"All I'm saying is, I have a wife in Highever who is expecting. If I had known… If they had told me there was such great personal risk…. It just doesn't seem fair."

"Well, we're here now, there's nothing much we can do about it." Daveth replied with finality. Ser Jory fell into an anxious silence.

Charlotte was equally nervous; so much so that when Duncan approached from behind, she jumped. _Ninny_, she chastised herself. _Be strong. _

Duncan crossed the tower to a table that had been assembled near the crest of their circle. Charlotte watched as he set down a large silver goblet on its surface, his face grim. Duncan seemed to collect himself, then turned to face them all, his voice soft.

"At last we come to the Joining. The Grey Wardens were founded during the first Blight when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation…. So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their taint."

Horrified, Jory whispered, "We're… we're going to drink the blood of those creatures?"

Duncan regarded him sternly, "As the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you - this is the source of our power and our victory."

"Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint, we can sense it in the darkspawn and use it to slay the Archdemon." Alistair explained. Ser Jory was no less horrified, while Daveth looked impressed and surprised.

Charlotte gulped, "Survive?"

"Not all who drink the blood live, and those who do are forever changed. This is why the Joining is a secret." Duncan bowed his head, "It is the price we pay."

Inwardly, Charlotte felt her heart nearly leap from her chest. She could die?

Passionately, Daveth told Duncan, "I'd sacrifice a lot more, if it meant ending the Blight." Duncan merely nodded, his expression solemn. Charlotte realized this potion must have been how Borin was saved from the Taint.

"We speak only a few words prior to the Joining, but these words have been said from the first. Alistair, if you would."

Alistair bowed his head and closed his eyes; his voice grew soft with reverence. "Join us, brothers and sisters; join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant; join us as we carry the duty that cannot be foresworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten and that, one day, we… shall join you."

It felt like a prayer. Charlotte's mouth had gone dry. She thought of the last few days, of everything she'd lost, and she realized she did not want to lose her life –but, like Daveth, she could not bear the thought of so many others being killed in a Blight. She thought of Borin's unknown loss, his family torn asunder while Fereldens believed they were safe. In light of the fact that she had nearly no family left, save Fergus, and she wasn't even sure he was alive, it seemed selfish to put herself first when she could possibly do so much more for everyone else. Including her brother, if he still lived.

Duncan retrieved the goblet in both hands. His surcoat delicately flapped against his ankles as he walked towards the circle; the Gryffin embossed breastplate he wore gleamed a little in the sunlight. All the recruits stared raptly at the goblet, waiting for him to call the first person who would drink from it. In her mind, Charlotte prepared herself, trying to be ready if he called for her.

"Daveth, step forward."

Daveth's shoulders went back; he strode proudly into the center of the circle, accepting the goblet out of Duncan's hands. Resolute, he looked at Duncan, Alistair, and Charlotte one last time, then drank deeply from the silver bowl.

Duncan quickly intercepted the goblet, then stood carefully back. His eyes fixed on Daveth with an intensity that made Charlotte stare at Daveth in alarm.

At first, he seemed to feel nothing. Then, suddenly, he clutched his throat as if it were on fire. Screaming, Daveth fell to one knee, moving his hands to cradle his head in agony. Concerned, Charlotte stepped toward him and gasped. Daveth threw his head back as if to look at her, but his eyes were completely white. Anguished, he cried out one last time, then fell to the ground and lay still.

In the farthest corner of the temple, Ser Jory was shaking, his breath coming in short gasps. Duncan bowed his head respectfully forward, and murmured an apology to Daveth, which Alistair mimicked. That done, Duncan offered the silver vessel to Jory.

"Step forward, Jory,"

"But I have a wife, a child!" Bewildered, Ser Jory drew his blade. To his right, Alistair closed his eyes as if in pain, and Charlotte looked in terror at Duncan.

"There is no turning back." Duncan put down the goblet and drew one of his own daggers, his face set.

The knight shook his head, desperate. "No, you ask too much - there is no glory in this!"

Without warning, Duncan lashed out as quick as a flash. Before Ser Jory had fully raised his sword, Duncan had disarmed and impaled him, planting his dagger deeply into his gut. Closing his eyes, Duncan withdrew his weapon and let Jory fall, murmuring, "I am sorry."

Chest heaving, Charlotte waited as Duncan sheathed the weapon stained with Jory's blood. He retrieved the goblet and approached her slowly. "Come forward, Charlotte."

Alistair watched her pleadingly, evidently concerned she would go the same way as Jory. Charlotte was brave but not stupid; she had no desire to fight Duncan for her life. She glanced at Jory's slumped body, a large stain growing under him and soaking into the stone. At least with the blood she had a chance.

Hands shaking, Charlotte took the silver cup and stared at the black potion inside. It smelled even more horrible than the blood she had smelled in the Wilds; a stomach-turning combination of oil, darkspawn blood, and herbs. Taking a deep breath, Charlotte lifted it to her lips and thought of Oren. She thought of her mother and Nan and Oriana. She thought of Borin, watching his family die in the mountains. She thought of Fergus, lost in the Wilds and possibly lost to her forever. Then, she thought of Father, offering her one last dance.

Charlotte closed her eyes and drank.

* * *

_Fool._

Angrily, Loghain's lip curled as he imagined Cailan smugly toasting the future he had constructed on the pillars of betrayal and deceit. That Warden-Commander hadn't sounded too certain, but he had evidently humored his ruler in favor of whatever prizes it offered him. They were both fools.

Loghain made his way around the back of the Tower of Ishal. He had posted one of his own to guard the front, telling everyone that it was sealed until the battle in order to protect the beacon at the top, which would serve as Loghain's signal to charge. That had been the original plan; only now was Loghain adding to it in order to head off even bigger disaster.

He had known for some time Cailan was doing something stupid and untrustworthy, but he hadn't wanted to believe he was collaborating with the Orlesians – had not fully committed to his plans until coming to Ostagar. He knew Cailan was unhappy with Anora; she had confided as much, lamenting her inability to bear him a child. Loghain also knew the kingdom needed an heir, but the idea that Anora would be put aside so easily…It was amazing, really, that Cailan had managed to get this far. When Loghain had searched that poorly locked treasure box in the King's tent, his stomach roiled at the letters from the Empress. How easily she manipulated Ferelden's King – and how pathetic that he thought himself the orchestrator!

Thirty years had barely passed since Loghain and Maric had driven the Orlesian scum from their borders. How many hundreds of men died, sacrificing their lives to bring about freedom and justice, only for the son of their rebel king to welcome back those who had raped their wives, burned down their homes, and murdered their children? It made Loghain sick to think of it – if Maric were here! What would he say when faced with a son who would marry the leader of a country that imprisoned them for nearly a century?

The Tower was the most impressive ruin by far, still standing proudly over the fortress with minimal decay. Loghain had scouted it carefully upon his arrival, attempting to anticipate any attacks there, and discovering the place where he had later ordered that his men would light the beacon. Luckily, he was able to circumvent the overgrown ramps and front entrances where his men were waiting to stop any intruders from disturbing the barracks inside or reaching the beacon. He knew that they would allow him to pass without a second thought, but he didn't want someone remembering his presence here later, at this time before the battle. It could prove… inconvenient.

Loghain let himself in through a back entrance that led into one of the bottom chambers of the Tower. Above it, the first layer of barracks had been erected for some of the soldiers in Loghain's army. He could hear them dressing, talking, laughing. Nearby, the calls of hounds somewhat alarmed him. Some warriors had elected to keep their battle hounds near their beds, putting together makeshift Kennels for them on the second floor. They could be perceptive creatures; he didn't want one of them discovering him. Loghain waited patiently in the shadows, making sure no one was nearby, being careful not to get seen.

Satisfied that no one had been alerted to his presence, Loghain crossed through the first room to the only other room on the bottom level, down a short hall. His boots echoed a little on the stone, but he proceeded quickly, preferring to disappear into the room expediently rather than take time for stealth. The second chamber's door was heavy, carved not from stone but from metal, with elaborate filigree curling up the face of it to the pointed top. Self-indulgent magistrates; Loghain ignored his mild disgust at their taste and heaved it open, coughing a little on the stale air.

This door he had not shared with anyone. It had been his secret weapon from the first; now, he stared into the open mouth that had collapsed from the ground in the middle of the floor, the stone around it cracked and distended from the force where it resisted the force which rent it open. Loghain had managed to seal it, should it have not been useful. There had been a door, evidently thrown from its hinges from another room and left here for storage. Loghain had covered the hole with it, only to remove it this morning, when he realized what he had to do.

No darkspawn had yet poured from it. Loghain knew they were probably too stupid to find this entrance on their own. The tunnel underneath the tower suggested their handiwork, but it seemed they had forgotten it, and when Loghain followed its path, he found that the exit into the Wilds had been sealed by earth. When those Warden recruits went out for Duncan's palaver, he had decided to act.

With the exit into the Wilds reopened, the darkspawn needed a little bait. This would be his final contribution; from that, it was up to the Maker, but he was certain that, faced with possible occupation by the Orlesians, the old man would be on his side. In the corner, Loghain went to his final chess piece.

The elf was small with red hair; he wore a green tunic and tan breeches. Loghain had drugged him with some herbs to make him sleep, then left him tied here. No one would miss him, and if they did they would assume the elf had performed some transgression, blaming him for his absence. Loghain ripped away his blindfold, and the young man looked sleepily up at him, his hair mussed and eyes fluttering open.

"You are to be a tool of our salvation," Loghain murmured. "Whatever you were before, you are going to do a noble thing now. I thank you."

Groaning, the elf opened his mouth and tried to prop himself up on one shoulder. His legs and hands were bound behind his back; he fell over and looked at Loghain again, his expression beleaguered and confused.

Loghain grabbed him behind the shoulders and dragged him over to the opening in the ground. Their movements echoed loudly in the silence, one's feet a continuous hiss against the floor, while Loghain shuffled. The boy was waking up, stirring against him, finding some internal resistance. Loghain admired him for that.

Propping the young man up, Loghain grunted, catching his breath. He was still a fit man, but the boy was made of muscle and currently unable to support any of his own weight. Loghain hoped the grogginess would help with the pain.

"He..her..hel…"

The boy's head lolled back, his jaw open, a bit of drool trickling out.

"Hush now. Take it like a man." Loghain wrapped one arm around him, positioned him over the hole, and slit his throat.

The boy gurgled as the blood poured, gasping horribly for air. Loghain released and gently shoved him away, careful not to touch his blood. The elf tumbled forward, rolling into the hole until he collapsed to a stop in the darkness. Loghain could hear him heaving, trying to breathe as his throat opened and wept red.

Loghain waited; once there was silence, he sheathed the small blade, wiping it carefully beforehand and discarding the towel into the hole. The darkspawn would smell the blood and come for him. Loghain knew this was true.

The opening stared back at him; it almost seemed to breathe. The darkness was like an invitation, beckoning him in. What Loghain had to do was difficult, but it was his duty. He could not allow anyone, not even Cailan, to jeopardize the freedom of Ferelden. The darkspawn threat was frightening people now, but soon it would pass; already they had secured three victories against them at Ostagar, with few skirmishes lost. They would win the battle against the larger raid that evening, and in its wake their king would betray them. They would be so distracted, so impressed by his victory, that it would be too late before they realized what had happened. And, without Loghain's sacrifice, no one would be able to stop the Orlesians from taking everything they had coveted for so long.

From far away, Loghain heard more men. They were preparing for tonight; soon, he would join them. Before then, he had one thing left to do.

Loghain looked into the hole once more; he could not help feeling it was sentient, smiling at him, approving of what he had done. He didn't know why, but it gave him a chill, and he removed himself quickly, before whatever evil that lay in wait there could touch him.

With a swish of his cloak and the whine of the door, the metal clacked shut behind him. In the darkness and silence he left behind, something stirred.

* * *

_Woo! The fun really picks up now - all the plotting can begin! Please send reviews and thank you for reading!_


	9. The War Council

A dragon was staring at her.

All Charlotte could hear was a sound that reminded her of wind screaming. White hot pain ripped her open from the inside, like fire in her veins, and then she saw it watching her.

An overwhelming pressure came down on Charlotte's mind. She bucked and resisted, pushing back against it on instinct. It pressed back harder, and the dragon screeched, it's angular jaw opening wide. Around it, a green fog swirled, cracking with flashes of light that coincided with spikes in her pain.

The pressure grew wider, then focused on one spot, like a hand pushing hard down on the top of her head. She braced herself for her shoulders, neck, and legs to buckle, but none of those sensations came. Charlotte grappled with the strangeness, trying to find her place, and then felt a humming come from deep inside. There were others, she realized. The humming was thousands of others, all standing nearby. They called back to the dragon, screeching an unintelligible cry of loyalty. Further in the distance, Charlotte could feel a similar sensation, but they occupied… pinpoints of light. These things felt like the humming mass she was lost in, but they were somehow… more alive.

Abruptly, all sound halted. Charlotte was ripped away; her chest filled with a gust of air.

Charlotte coughed and wretched, rolling over quickly as she was sick onto the ground. Her entire body was trembling, soaking with a cold sweat. The pain she had felt had ceased, but the memory of its unbelievable agony remained imprinted on her brain.

"There, there. You made it." Alistair was kneeling over her, one hand holding back her hair from the pool of vomit. His face was relieved, and even though he was pale, he gave her an encouraging smile.

"You are one of us." Duncan told her, helping Alistair bring Charlotte to her feet. "You will need rest now before the battle. Come."

Duncan and Alistair brought Charlotte back to her father's tent. Waiting there was the elderly mage who had spoken with her earlier. Servants flapped nervously around her, but she took no notice of them. Her expression was stern.

"Could you not have performed this ritual further away from the battle?" Wynne chastised them, opening the canvas flap so they could carry Charlotte in. Nearby, a maid gasped in astonishment at the pale state of their master's daughter.

Charlotte had fainted. She was whiter than even before, her face shining with a sheen of cool sweat. The men deposited her onto a cot beyond the tent's first partition. Wynne bent to examine her while Alistair hovered anxiously nearby.

"She is struggling to recover; I will require the assistance of one of the other mages. Muriel is her name, please fetch her and tell her to bring more Elfroot potion."

A servant left to get the young woman. Alistair stared with wide eyes at the Senior Enchanter.

"Will she be alright?"

"She will live. I greatly dislike the thought of her fighting on this eve; it might be too much for her." Wynne glared at him with castigation. Alistair flushed.

"Wynne, I am here. Is she…?"

"Please, we must force her to drink some of this potion and then heal her. Her body was smaller than the others. She lived, but she is struggling with some sort of residual sickness from the Joining." Wynne addressed Duncan, "There was darkspawn blood?"

Reluctantly, he nodded. Muriel looked horrified.

Wynne was briskly efficient, "Very well. Muriel, pour the potion down her throat. Once she has swallowed it, assist me in healing her."

The women worked quietly in the candlelight that shown on the canvas of the tent; soon, it would be dark. The flickering glow from Charlotte's lanterns made the silken walls effulgent, wind tugging them tightly over their wooden poles and dancing with the lanterns' flames.

Wynne's blue healing magic trailed over Charlotte's prone body; after a few moments, Charlotte gasped and sat up, then fell back with a groan. She clutched her head.

"Hush now, your body has had quite the transformation. You must allow it to adjust." Wynne indicated that Muriel should go; she bowed quickly and hurried from the tent.

"Uughh…" Wearily, Charlotte blinked up at them, the color slowly returning to her face.

"Please get her some wine and food. Once she's eaten, I think that will be the best we can do." Fendrel saw to this request himself, returning only a few moments later, hovering in concern. "You are dismissed," Wynne told him, not unkindly. People just didn't understand the space required for adequate healing.

"Alistair, please assist Wynne. There are matters I must attend to." Duncan swept from the tent; Alistair remained behind, keeping a respectful distance so that Wynne would not send him away.

Charlotte ate slowly, struggling to sit up. After she sipped the last of her wine, she lay down with a sigh.

"There," Wynne smiled, putting down the iron vessel from which Charlotte had drunk onto a nearby folding table. "That's better. How do you feel?"

"Weak," Charlotte murmured, "But much improved. My thanks to you, Wynne."

"No need. I believe there is someone here to see you."

Mastodon shoved his way in, impatient to reach Charlotte. She reached out a delicate hand.

"Ruff!" Mastodon wrinkled his face with concern, bumping her hand with his snout.

"I'm fine, really."

He grumbled doubtfully, then nosed Wynne in thanks. She rubbed his ears with a chuckle. Turning, Mastodon glared at Alistair, full of reproach.

"I swear," Alistair said, holding up one hand, "I did everything in my power to help her. Honestly, Mastodon. Truly."

Mastodon scrutinized him carefully, his big brown eyes shining in the flickering light. Finally, he snorted. Alistair wasn't sure if this was forgiveness or dismissal, but he chose not to question it.

"Will she be ready for battle?" Alistair inquired, at loose ends.

Wynne pierced Alistair with a disapproving gaze, "She is capable, but be careful with her, Warden Alistair. Her body has had a nasty shock."

As the elder woman departed, Alistair couldn't help but mutter, "Oh, I remember." Rising his voice gently so Charlotte could hear, he inquired, "Can I help you with anything?"

Charlotte slowly pulled herself up, breathing deeply to make her head stop spinning. "Thank you, but I'm fine… I just, need some time to rest, if you don't mind." She sniffed surreptitiously at one arm, then added, "And maybe a bath would be in order."

Awkwardly, Alistair nodded and left the tent to fetch a maidservant. Mastodon nosed her again, whining.

"Really, I'm ok. Just a bit dizzy and dirty. Would you help me up?"

Mastodon chuffed and stepped forward, pushing most of his back underneath her weight. Charlotte leaned into him with one arm and pushed, staggering a little as her stomach rolled. The pain was completely gone now, but her body shook and shivered, the weakness in it making her feel faint.

Once the nausea lifted, Charlotte patted Mastodon on the back and stood up straight. The more she pushed herself forward, the better she felt. Though she was a long way from feeling healthy, the shakiness was lessening, and she allowed herself a deep, cleansing breath.

Barking happily, Mastodon danced around in a quick circle, smiling because he knew she felt better.

"Thanks, boy." She stroked his head, then checked the tent for something comfortable to wear and – in light of the day's excursions - arrows. She knew she had time before the battle tomorrow, but the sounds in camp suggested everyone was revving up their final preparations and Charlotte didn't want to be left behind.

In a large chest behind the second partition, Charlotte found some weapons and supplies. Ignoring the pangs aroused at the sight of so many small things familiar, Charlotte quickly gathered what she could use. There were a few health poultices, two veridium daggers, and parts for arrows. Charlotte traded Rigby's lockbox for the arrows and stored them in her quiver, carefully placing Rigby's chest inside her pack, where she also stored the poultices she had found; the daggers were sheathed in her belt. Unfortunately, all her brother's leather armor was too large; his linen nightshirt smelled of him and she held it to her face, inhaling. It wasn't until Fergus disappeared that she realized just how much he meant.

Charlotte was disappointed by what little she could cobble together to patch up her armor. She had ripped a piece of her shoulder pad in the Wilds. It appeared there was not sufficient time to fix it now. Maybe the Quartermaster would have something….

Charlotte thought briefly to check the chests for silver, but such concerns at a time like this felt gauche. She had coin in her pack, why would she need more? The truth was she didn't know what was coming, and part of her wanted to make sure she was taken care of, should the worst happen with Howe. On the other hand, King Cailan seemed fairly certain of their victory in battle – she would be able to come back for such things later.

The final item of concern to her was her family's sword. She could only carry so much and her skill was with daggers, not larger blades. Charlotte hesitated; something in her didn't want to leave it behind when they finally went into battle.

Mastodon nosed his way in, peering curiously into the chests she had opened and panting with excitement. Charlotte scratched his ears while she considered her predicament with her father's sword. A gentle throat-clearing drew her attention. Despite her invitation, Alistair called to her from the outside, evidently respectful of her privacy.

"A maid is boiling some water and will be here shortly. If you feel up to snuff, food will be served soon. I would get some while there's still food to be had." Alistair advised. She could almost see him shifting fretfully foot-to-foot, worrying about her.

"Thank you," Charlotte rose wearily and sat on the cot. "But I'm fine for now." Reluctantly, Alistair left.

In truth, Charlotte was grateful for the time alone. Now that she knew what was left for her to gather in anticipation of battle, a great exhaustion stole over her. The maid arrived just in time to catch her before she fell unconscious, two male servants carrying a large wooden tub filled with water. "Here you are, my lady!" the maid offered cheerily, an unfamiliar woman who had not come with Fergus' retinue. "This should patch you right up!" She began efficiently dispatching of Charlotte's ragged armor.

Nadia left with a curtsy, one golden sovereign clutched in her hand. As far as Charlotte was concerned, the value of a bath in these circumstances should be priced much higher, but she didn't want the poor girl penalized for fleecing nobles of their money. Charlotte took comfort in Fergus' shirt around her and nearly staggered back onto the cot, where she stared at the flickering lights for some time, listening to the wind, barking hounds, and other comforting sounds of steady activity. Mastodon turned a quick circle and settled down nearby, one ear pricked toward the tent entrance for any signs of unwanted visitors. Charlotte watched him for a time; her eyes began to close drowsily. When the moon rose high and it was near midnight, Wynne came to check on her. The girl and her hound slept together in the waning candle light, their breathing deep, with one yipping occasionally. Fendrel peeked his head in, anxious to ensure the lady was not disturbed. Wynne waved him away. Smiling, the old woman blew each wick out, leaving two innocent souls to enjoy their visits in the land of the Maker.

* * *

The following day was full of busy preparation. Charlotte purchased supplies from the Quartermaster, including new studded leathers to replace those which had been damaged in her travels and the Wilds. He also boasted a rather sinister-looking supply of bombs, each containing a different material to thwart enemies via methods of various painful natures. Despite Alistair's doubts, Charlotte encouraged him to purchase some, hoping they would be of use in close combat with the darkspawn. _Needs must_, she thought ruefully.

Earlier that morning, Duncan had approached them outside of Charlotte's tent shortly after she'd woken and Alistair had come to check on her. "The King has requested your presence at the Council."

Bewildered, Alistair asked, "Why?"

"He did not say, but it is essential that you be there. Please meet me at the old temple in half an hour's time." Duncan pierced Alistair with a look of significance Charlotte did not understand and Alistair did not complain further.

Once Duncan was out of the range required to deliver severity, the two of them regarded each other, perplexed why the two most junior wardens would be required at the intimate war council of King Cailan and his two commanders. "Let me just get myself ready," Charlotte requested. Alistair waited patiently outside.

Alistair had his back to her when she and Mastodon came out. Battle would come with the setting of the sun, when the darkspawn would finally attack. For now, buttery light filtered through the trees and a gentle wind blew pleasantly through her hair; upon reflection, she realized the birds had stopped singing. She wondered if this meant the darkspawn were encroaching. Charlotte's blood picked up speed in her veins at the thought.

"Feeling better? Good. We need to go." Alistair made to leave.

"Wait." A gentle hand grabbed his shoulder. Alistair stopped and turned.

"I.. I noticed your blade is a little worn. I thought maybe you could carry this for me?" Charlotte held out the Cousland sword, her large eyes anxious.

Alistair's throat swelled a little; he knew what this offer meant, how important that sword must be to her. It was so precious that she couldn't bear to leave it.

Gruffly, he took the sword by its hilt and inspected the veridium shining in the morning sun. "It's a fine blade. I would be honored. Thank you." He removed his longsword from his belt and replaced it with the Cousland Family sword, placing the discard in her father's tent.

Charlotte smiled with relief, "You're Welcome, Alistair." Mastodon barked in approval, panting up at Alistair. Clearing his throat, Alistair retrieved a small locket from his pack and handed it to her. Charlotte accepted it with questioning surprise.

"After every Joining, survivors are given these lockets of darkspawn blood. To remember those… who didn't make it this far."

Charlotte quickly fastened the locket onto her neck, studying the tiny vial of blood enclosed in brass. The blood was the potion from the silver goblet… The black liquid had strange purplish glean to it, moving sluggishly in the glass. Charlotte dropped it onto her breastbone, the chain settling around her neck and in the dips of her collarbone, the locket itself a cold weight moving against her skin with every breath. Glancing up, she murmured an acknowledgment: "It shall serve its purpose well." With that, they made their way to the grand hall outside the old temple.

The hall's roof had long since parted ways with its walls, and it lay open to the tall, green trees that bowed majestically over them. At the far end from the temple, the council was waiting. King Cailian, Duncan, and Teyrn Loghain stood by a table laden with maps; at a short distance to the left were a mage and a revered mother, who hovered suspiciously over the mage. With a hand signal, Charlotte ordered Mastodon to wait near the entrance and then hurried in Alistair's wake, eager not to look back behind her where Ser Jory and Daveth had died not even a day ago.

As they approached, the conversation began drifting over to them.

"….Loghain my decision is final; I will stand by the Grey Wardens in this assault." Cailan stared down his father-in-law, exuding an air of authority.

Loghain rubbed his temples wearily, "You risk too much, Cailan. The darkspawn horde is too vicious for you to be playing hero on the front lines." The Teyrn's eyes looked sharply over Charlotte, their unsettling blue as piercing as she remembered, his dark hair tied back at the nape of his neck.

"If that is the case, perhaps we should wait for the Orlesian forces to join us as well." Cailan remarked, his eyes dancing as he smelled victory.

Angrily, Loghain struggled to maintain his calm, "I must repeat my protests to your fool notion that we need the Orlesians to defend ourselves!" Cailan curled his lip and looked like he had been slapped.

"It is not a fool notion! Our arguments with the Orlesians are a thing of the past and you will remember who is king."

Uneasy, Charlotte looked at Alistair, who was equally embarrassed. It felt wrong to be party to the King and Loghain's argument. Why was she even here? Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Duncan staring at them. He seemed to be trying to communicate a message, but Charlotte could not understand what it was.

"How fortunate Maric did not live to see his son ready to hand Ferelden over to those who enslaved us for a century." Loghain was dry with disgust. This seemed to calm Calain.

"Then our current forces will have to suffice, won't they?" His tone was conciliatory and snide at the same time. Charlotte honestly wondered how he got away with it; she felt as if she had stumbled into the Orlesian court. He didn't seem to be much of a King, at least not in Ferelden terms, now that she was up close. Cailan addressed the Warden-Commander.

"Duncan, are your men ready for battle?"

"They are, your Majesty."

Calain beamed, his eyes lighting up. "And you have completed your Joining, Lady Cousland. Congratulations! Every Grey Warden is needed now; you should be honored to join their ranks." Charlotte bowed slightly, at a loss in the face of his disregard for the danger before them. Something niggled and demanded her attention, but the memory danced away from her as quickly as it presented itself.

"Your fascination with glory and legends will be your undoing, Cailan; we must attend to reality!" Loghan snapped, his eyes sweeping Charlotte with icy blue criticism. The man's ability for an expression was a little overwhelming; he wasn't handsome, but his strong nose and cheekbones made an impression. Charlotte wondered at how his stern intelligence managed to work alongside Cailan's handsome blonde obliviousness.

"Fine! Speak your strategy." Cailan bent over the map laid out on the table, where Loghain had drawn his plan for the battle.

Loghain awaited everyone's full attention; Charlotte leaned accommodatingly forward, trying to make sense of what he had drawn on the map of Ostagar. She felt foolish for attending this meeting. Why had Duncan and the King insisted on her presence?

"The Grey Wardens and I draw the darkspawn into charging our lines, and then?"

Loghain indicated the valley where Cailan would be facing from a high bridge in the ruins. "You will attack from here, alongside the Grey Wardens and some of my men. The remaining forces will be stationed at the other side of the valley. We will await signal from the Tower of Ishal before charging. Once the darkspawn forces are sufficiently drawn in, the beacon will be lit and we will crush them from the other side. They will have no escape."

Loghain watched Cailan's face, wondering if he suspected anything. That sly Duncan had been keeping eyes on Loghain since he walked in to the meeting, and Loghain knew to avoid him. At least this plan would also crush those troublesome Grey Wardens and their secrets with them.

"Yes, I remember. So who will light this beacon?"

Loghain stood straight, shrugging with unconcern. "One of my men is stationed there. He will light the beacon when the forces are far enough in. It's not a dangerous task, but it is vital." Internally, Loghain thought of the wide opening in the earth and how soon the Tower would be overrun by Darkspawn.

Cailan grinned, "Then we should send our best. Send Wardens Alistair and Charlotte to make sure it is done."

Taken aback, Loghain blurted, "What?"

Charlotte too was surprised. So was this why she had been summoned? To light the beacon? On her right, Alistair looked upset. Duncan was glaring at him from behind Loghain.

Angrily, Loghain addressed the King. "That is unnecessary, Cailan. I have men stationed for this very purpose. These Wardens should be with their comrades in the field."

"No," Cailan insisted. "They are much better equipped to get the job done." He turned to address Charlotte. "I am sure you feel up to the task?"

Cornered, Charlotte tried not to splutter. "Of course, your Majesty."

Taking a different tack, Loghain ignored Charlotte and looked Cailan in the eye. "You rely on these Grey Wardens too much, is that truly wise?"

"Enough of your conspiracy theories, Loghain!" Cailan snapped. "Grey Wardens battle the Blight no matter where they are from!" Loghain grunted and looked away.

"Your Majesty," Duncan interjected quietly. "You should consider the possibility of the Archdemon appearing."

From somewhere deep inside her, Charlotte felt a sickening fear click into place. All at once, she remembered an overwhelming humming, and she gasped with surprise.

Alistair clearly understood and sidled closer to her, trying to shield her from the others a little so she could recover control. Loghain glanced at her with arched brows, his expression questioning. He turned to Duncan.

"There haven't been any signs of dragons in the Wilds." His skepticism bounced off the edge of his statement, placing all attention back on Duncan to sufficiently answer for his concern.

"Well, I –"

"Isn't that what your men are here for, Duncan?" Cailan asked pointedly. Duncan exchanged a look of uncertainty with Alistair, who was still standing strategically in front of Charlotte. Behind him, her heart fluttered and pounded as she remembered the feeling of teeming hordes. Had that been real?

"Yes, Your Majesty." Duncan relented, his shoulders slumped.

The mage to Cailan's left stepped forward. "Your Majesty, the Tower and its beacon are unnecessary." He implored the King, pushing past the disapproving chantry sister.

Angrily, she cut the mage off. "We will not subject any lives to your spells, Mage! Save them for the Darkspawn." Cailan turned away from him, and the mage stepped back, his face twisted with disappointment.

"Enough," Loghain commanded, rolling up the maps. "This plan will have to suffice. The Grey Wardens will light the beacon."

"Thank you, Loghain!" Cailan beamed, clapping the older man on the shoulder. Loghain scowled.

"Come on," Alistair whispered, urging Charlotte along. "We'll meet Duncan at the Grey Warden encampment."

As Charlotte followed Alistair in a daze, Mastodon trailing behind them, Duncan watched the Teyrn and King, feeling disquiet. Something had happened, maybe something between them, he couldn't tell. Loghain watched him back, his eyes sharp. Loghain decided to give Cailan one last chance.

"Is there no way I can change your mind, Cailan? I am sure we would all feel more comfortable with you away from the front lines." Loghain nodded respectfully to Duncan, who bowed his head in assent.

"I'm sure, Loghain!" Cailan was no longer angry but excited. His grey eyes, like his mother's, glazed over as he gazed into the distance, imagining the battle before him.

"I cannot wait for that glorious moment, the Grey Wardens battle alongside the King of Ferelden to stem the tide of evil." He smiled dreamily, chin lifted and one hand placed on his hip as if posing for a portrait.

Loghain sighed; he had done everything he could to save him. Gathering his maps, Loghain tucked them under one arm and started to walk away. Duncan stared after him, a deep feeling of unease stirring in his chest.

"Indeed, Cailan," Loghain agreed calmly. "A glorious moment for us all." And then he was gone.

* * *

_edited: 7/12/2013_


	10. For Ferelden

**_Hello! I wanted to let those who might be checking this that I am in the process of writing more. Unfortunately, I got rather sick this week, just not enough to take off work, so my time that is usually reserved for writing when I get home has been spent unconscious in my chair like a little old lady. My goal now is to slow down and release two chapters a week - I got a bit overexcited and posted one after the other and quickly learned the disadvantage. Thank you to those who are reading! Please do send reviews as time goes on; the feedback offered by my beta-readers has been invaluable, but they aren't the only ones whose opinions I care about! Luck with the rest of the week to all._**

**_Molti baci,_**

**_Enid._**

* * *

"It's a Blight," Charlotte blurted, now that Alistair had spirited her away. "I saw the Archdemon. By the Maker!"

Alistair was apologetic and a little urgent as he moved her out of earshot of the Quartermaster and Circle Mages, who were conferring nearby. "I won't lie; we are facing a Blight, but you _must _keep that to yourself or be responsible for a panic."

Charlotte looked around her. The Quartermaster was haggling his wares, while the kennel master laughed at a dog bargaining for a treat, his brethren barking enthusiastically behind him. In the distance, she saw a Sister high on a wooden platform, singing the Chant to a group of kneeling worshippers; another Sister had stopped to listen, arms full of bandages and poultices for those who had already been injured in previous skirmishes and scouting expeditions. Wood was chopped, weapons sharpened, battle-plans confirmed. Men even continued to spar on the southwest side of the fortress; she could hear their shared battle-cries as they trained together.

"This is madness, sending them in without telling them the truth. Do you know that, Alistair?" Charlotte turned to him, beautiful eyes reproaching and fearful.

Alistair was well aware, but what could he do? Grey Wardens kept secrets, it was part of their role. Duncan had made it clear from his Joining that he could not extend his forthright manner to the details of Grey Warden tactics. For whatever reason, Duncan had chosen not to press his knowledge any further upon those in command. It seemed he relied on their limited ranks to fend off the oncoming horde – and Alistair wouldn't even be allowed in the battle. He sighed.

"I know," his warm voice was full of sympathy; Charlotte had been granted almost no time to learn anything about her life as a Grey Warden, so he could hardly blame her. "But we have our orders and I wouldn't want to be responsible for aggravating the situation further. I promise once all this is over, I will help you talk to Duncan about anything you need."

"But that's not the point!"

"Isn't it, though? We're Grey Wardens – we've no pasts and only one future: to kill darkspawn. We're the only ones to can end the Blight, although I'm not sure how. The details matter, of course they do, but only to you and me. If most people knew what was involved in joining our order, they would never dream of doing it! Do you understand?" Alistair eyed her intently, furrowing his handsome brow.

Charlotte bit her lip; it just seemed so _wrong_. It weakened their forces if they didn't know what they were actually fighting! But, if the Grey Wardens alone could end it, did it really matter?

Duncan came down the ramp from the old temple; Charlotte was enough off to the side that he didn't see her or Alistair. His face was drawn in distinct lines, his expression troubled. He seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, and all alone. Was that also her future?

Charlotte realized that she had no power, no ability to shape these events. As helplessly as she had been foisted out of her home and into war, she had been deposited into the life of a Grey Warden. She had no command over anything and Duncan had clearly stated his rules when it came to their order's secrets. So what was she so undecided over? What was it that she wanted?

Charlotte didn't know.

* * *

The men had gathered at the basin of the valley; surrounding them were spiked barricades, strategically positioned to ward off waves of Darkspawn if they approached the bridge. The sun had set and rain came. As the patters of water increased and spread over the valley, the men could see their breath in the wet air, and cold folded slowly over them.

Cailan and Duncan stood above the men at the top of stairs leading down from the fortress bridge, watching for the darkspawn army. Chantry priestesses circulated through the men, blessing them with thuribles of burning sage and ignoring the rain. Clouds of smoke rose out of the censers suspended from brass chains that rattled in the wind; as soon as the smoke appeared it evaporated into the mists above them, the men's breath rising to meet it like ghosts dancing in the dark.

"The plan will work, Your Majesty."

"Of course it will," Cailan glared at the men, "The Blight ends here."

Charlotte stood at the top of everything, hesitating in the mouth of the bridge. The soldiers in front of her manned the catapults; archers held their bows, waiting for flaming arrows. Alistair had instructed her to stay back, wanting to leave at the right moment. Mastodon was all business behind him, shoulders braced to run the length of the bridge towards the tower.

"We need to give them time to start fighting," Alistair told her. "Once they've begun, we will head for the tower to light the beacon."

Charlotte stepped forward in the rain, getting closer to the edge of the bridge. At first, she could sense nothing, then an overwhelming impression of darkness stole over her. Instinctively, she turned toward the hill that dipped into the valley. The sight there was unspeakable.

Moving in the tall redwood trees were thousands of torches. They shook and bobbed in the night; a steady ocean of movement descending into the valley. Thousands – there were thousands of them. Charlotte glanced down at the men, also in the thousands, and wondered how many would survive. Her throat closed as she studied the oncoming horde once more; how could have Fergus survived?

"ARCHERS!"

Cailan's roar carried over the wind and rain. The men below and above nocked their bows with arrows and waited. Slowly, the first darkspawn emerged from the trees. Even from this distance, Charlotte could see their decaying faces, feeling the itching hum in her blood that called to them. She could hear the growls and screeches they emitted as they tumbled willingly into battle.

Moments later, the arrows released, flying through the air like a hellish flock of birds. They descended and found their marks; those who survived continued to press on, screaming.

"HOUNDS!"

Charlotte gulped and looked down, clutching the stone wall of the bridge. She saw the hounds of the Ash Warriors painted in Kaddis. One of the warriors had also painted Mastodon as a gift to her; when she collected him from the kennels, the warrior had explained its value in battle, and how it would help Mastodon remember her as friend and not foe in the height of his bloodlust.

The hounds barked their excitement and ran at the darkspawn. She could see an ogre towering over all the others, its enormous maw grinding with impatience. The hounds flooded their ranks, some dying on contact while others brought a few darkspawn down. The warriors below screamed and waved their weapons, honoring those who had fallen.

Cailan turned to the men; in the light of the fires below, Charlotte thought he looked pale. He raised his sword in the air.

"FOR FERELDEN!"

Two waves came together in the valley and blood began to spill. Men released stones from the catapults into the teeming crowds. Mastodon began barking.

"LET'S GO!" Alistair shouted.


	11. And Then There Were Two

Charlotte couldn't hear anything.

She was buried in darkness, struggling as if she had been wrapped in a hundred thick blankets and left drowning in their heaving surge. It was hot. She could remember screaming – was it her? – No, it was someone else. Something else.

There was pain, confusion. She was so _hot_. The blankets were all around her, she couldn't breathe properly. She tried to remember what had happened, but an unnamed mental resistance kept bucking her off. Her mind was a restless steed, refusing to be broken. The darkness and heat she rode in waves, caught somewhere between a deep sleep and consciousness.

Bits and pieces came back to her. The tower – they had been in the tower. Alistair shouting. The pouring rain. The air had smelled terrible – blood, smoke, decaying flesh. The Darkspawn were there, had somehow gotten in. The tower rose like a specter in the night, its corona disappearing into the cloudy sky.

They decided to fight their way through to the beacon. She could recall locking some of the darkspawn into rooms that had doors, running as fast as they could from floor to floor. There had been so many she lost count. A mage had helped them – Cassius? – he'd cast good shield spells and lit her daggers on fire.

The tower wound on forever, climbing in disorienting circles that made Charlotte's head spin. Alistair pinpointed the locations of darkspawn while Charlotte fought an increasing buzzing in her head. The hum and itch that was their call. Like her blood boiling, like thousands of bees screaming her name.

Finally, they reached the passage to the beacon. So many darkspawn had followed them. Alistair and she used fire bombs while Cassius cast an almighty wind spell that sent those nipping at their heels across the room. Alistair made it through – Cassius didn't. Alistair and Mastodon attempted to block one last door, and she ran ahead to light the signal for Teyrn Loghain and his men, certain she was already too late.

Once inside the final chamber, every muscle in her body burning with effort, Charlotte had glanced wildly around her, seeking the beacon. The top of the tower looked like the inside of a dragon; its dome extended into the sky, with vaulted arches that thinned and flared like bones in a dragon's wing. The windows between were green and blue, like scales, and dimly reflected the moonlight from outside, as well as the glittering flickers of a fire on the other end of the room.

In her haste, Charlotte had missed a hulking shape that was cast in shadow in front of the fire burning there, completely black against the flames' orange light. Charlotte froze, eyes widening with horror as she realized what it was. Slowly, the beast rose, unwrapping itself from its bent position. Charlotte heard a sickening crunch as the darkspawn wrenched its head to one side, then dropped something large and red to the floor, where it landed wetly on the stone. Slowly, the thing turned, jaws crunching on bone and flesh, sniffing loudly as it detected her presence.

The ogre was an unusual purple color, which struck her as odd. Its horns curled from its head to points that faced forward for an effective charge, like a bull; below were beady eyes that hovered too closely together over a short snout, its nostrils flaring as it sought her scent. Beneath the nose, a wide maw drooped at the corners, almost as if it were frowning, and was full of teeth as thick as a man's fingers, ending in jagged points. Drool poured copiously over the meat in its mouth and the hideous beast crudely wiped some of it away, gulping down its meal, as it studied Charlotte with dim interest.

Charlotte went cold all over.

As soon as the ogre charged, Charlotte streaked to the side, moving so quickly she couldn't consciously remember deciding to do it. Her body experienced a rush of power that told her to run, but the room was one big circle and the beacon – of course now she could see it – was there, waiting for her, behind the ogre's towering form. Charlotte screamed as the ogre roared at her again, part of her concentration still with the beacon, while the rest of her focused on trying not to die.

She fought for what had felt like hours, her throat raw from terror while she ran and ran around the room, avoiding the ogre's horns and enormous hands that struck with the power of boulders. She had climbed its back and lost a dagger in the thick flesh there as she was thrown almost all the way to the beacon. Finally, desperate and weeping, she had hurled her last bomb – one made of acid – into its face, finally gaining enough purchase as it howled in agony to severe its spine with all her remaining strength.

Tears streaming down her face, Charlotte had crawled and stumbled toward the fire burning on the edge of the chamber, reaching out one hand. There was no wood there, the flames fueled instead by the flesh of dead soldiers. One had his sword in his hand, the blade still outside the burning wreckage. With what energy she had left, Charlotte had extracted it from the pile of bodies, used the blade to catch some unnamed burning object, and thrown it into the mouth of the beacon.

The entire room lit as the fire reached the open claw at the top of the tower; Charlotte lay and stared at the fruits of her labor, relieved that she had done it, wishing that she could die or fall asleep. Alistair came tumbling after her, his face streaked with sweat and dirt, patently disbelieving of her defeat against the ogre while trying to help her to her feet.

"We must… talk to Duncan… about what supposedly "simple" jobs… he wants us to do in battle. For the future."

Charlotte had not even the energy to pretend to laugh.

"Alright then, let's-"

A sound like metal tearing. Alistair shouting. Fresh pain in her shoulder, and the sensation of falling like a leaf in autumn. Then, complete darkness.

* * *

"Calm yourself. Twas nothing but a bad dream."

Charlotte attempted to kick off the covers, but this triggered a twinge in her side not unlike a large splinter being driven into her lung. She fell back.

"You are far too overexcited. You must rest or mother will chastise me again for my poor healing magic. And, quite frankly, I feel I've borne enough of it for one day."

Charlotte groaned as her eyes rolled around in her head.

"I know you feel pain, but you must calm yourself before anything can be done for you. I cannot remove bandages while you squirm."

"What… Maker…"

"Honestly, Warden, you make my task most impossible."

The voice drawled; it was eloquent. Where was in Thedas was she?

Charlotte focused her vision, trying to gain a sense of calm. The waves she had been riding slowed; it reminded her of times she had swam in the Waking Sea with Fergus, the salt stinging her eyes and the ocean's sounds soothing her long after she would fall asleep in her bed, body satisfied and exhausted.

Her body certainly didn't feel like that now. The bed was lumpy and her feet were cold at its end; the rest of her burned from the heat of the fire that warmed the entire hut and the layer of blankets tucked over her. She longed to cast them off, but elected instead to take stock of injuries, cautious of further damage done by sudden movements.

"Am I… Am I badly hurt?"

The girl from the swamp came into focus. What was her name? She still had that beautiful chestnut hair. Yellow eyes looked on impassively; the sound of water dripping from a rag tinkled from the belly of a ceramic bowl. Charlotte noticed the lip of the bowl had a chip; surely the Witches of the Wilds would find such a fragile object impractical?

"Yes, you were_._" She answered in a clipped tone, one eyebrow raised as if she found the conversation amusing or tiresome, Charlotte could not tell which. "Mother has healed you rather well; the exact state of your wounds I cannot say, but if you do not tax yourself overmuch you will live."

When Charlotte did not reply, the girl spoke again. "I am Morrigan, lest you have forgotten. You are in the Wilds and I am changing the bandages on your wounds." She moved to clean a spot near Charlotte's ribs.

Charlotte looked about. The hut was tiny, but neatly cared for. Apart from the uncomfortably hot fire roaring in the hearth at the center of the opposite wall, there were bookshelves stacked with valuable-looking tomes bound in leather of rich reds and browns. One possessed a more sinister air, its spine dark green and peeling; near it, Charlotte was alarmed to note a man's skull on the shelf, with a candle melted into its crown, currently unlit. Around an erecting beam in the middle of the single chamber herbs had been hung on string wrapped around the wood. More herbs hung from the low beams in the ceiling, some of which Charlotte could recognize. With only room for one more lumpy cot, it was tight quarters indeed and for a moment Charlotte felt terribly homesick.

"You are suddenly quiet. Is there something on your mind?"

It was not the comfort Charlotte could have used, but there were more pressing matters. "What happened?"

The witch sighed and dropped the rag back into the bowl with a careless _slop_, clearly not enjoying the position of nursemaid. Bandages and a white salve were produced as the little wooden stool upon which she sat was scooted closer. She began to remove the old dressings from Charlotte's wounds.

"Everyone is dead; the battle was lost to the darkspawn."

Inhaling sharply against the pain from lurching forward in shock, Charlotte refused to accept it. "No!"

Morrigan smirked ever so slightly, then tutted and responded airily, "I am afraid it is so."

"But… how? We lit the beacon, did the army not charge- Ah!"

The witch ignored her discomfort and began replacing the bandage. Charlotte noted briefly that her wound did not appear serious; as the cloth wrapped there was secured tightly, the salve did its work and soothed her considerably. Some of the stifling heat ebbed away.

Morrigan regarded her with shrewd yellow eyes, "How does your memory fare? Do you remember Mother's rescue?"

Charlotte sifted through the smoke and shadows in her mind, trying to find the last moment she had recorded consciously. "I… No. I remember lighting the beacon. Then Alistair came-Alistair!" Charlotte lurched forward again, worried for her comrade, eyes wide and beseeching.

"Ah yes, the spikey-haired one who likes to talk. He lives."

Charlotte exhaled in relief, relaxing back on her pillows.

Morrigan rolled her eyes and rose to put away the bits of cloth and salve mixture. "I am not certain how that benefits anyone's circumstances, but if it pleases you." She poured the water from the bowl out a window and shut it with a clack. "Your hound also survived. He has been most intolerably anxious over you."

Charlotte chose to ignore her discourteous tone, now concerned for others. "What of the army? How did they lose?"

"The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field. The darkspawn won your battle. Those he abandoned were massacred."

Charlotte gulped. "And the King?"

Morrigan's eyes glittered in the firelight; her expression was unreadable. "Dead."

A sense of unreality stole over Charlotte; her stomach roiled at the news. "Dear Maker."

Ferelden was without a ruler. And the darkspawn had triumphed; the Blight had truly begun and under the worse possible circumstances Charlotte could imagine. The other Grey Wardens would-

The other Grey Wardens.

Slowly, careful not to move too quickly as she looked into Morrigan's aurulent gaze, Charlotte whispered her final question.

"They, like all the others, perished on the field. My Mother saw it herself– she said it were as if the darkspawn knew the Grey Wardens from the other men. Your commander died last and that is when she rescued you."

Dazed, Charlotte responded automatically, "Rescued?"

Morrigan smirked crookedly, her voice creamy with satisfaction. "Yes, she turned into a giant bird and _plucked_ the three of you from atop the tower, one in each talon with your hound in her beak. Like an oversized rat, ha!" Chuckling to herself, Morrigan bent to a pot over the fire, stirring a large wooden spoon.

Crushing despair made tears prick at Charlotte's eyes. It was more than she could bear; staring blankly into the fire, Charlotte took stock. Everyone – dead. The one man who could answer her questions had been lost to the darkspawn. Now a Blight encroached and threatened all of Ferelden – and eventually, all of Thedas itself. And she and Alistair alone had the means to stop it.

Morrigan's haughty voice brought her out of her melancholy thoughts. "If you are quite finished asking questions, my mother asked to see you when you awoke." Morrigan raised an impatient eyebrow, tapping the wooden spoon against the edge of the pot to dispense of a film that may or may not have qualified as a meat stew.

It took a moment for her brain to continue working, but Charlotte realized what she had to do. "Yes," Charlotte swung gingerly around, throwing the blankets from her legs and sighing a little with relief at the cooler air on her skin. "Of course. Could you please hand me my clothes?"

Morrigan obligingly fetched her tunic and trousers; they, and her armor, were badly torn. Charlotte sighed inwardly; she would have to repair it or find an entirely new set. With Morrigan's assistance, she dressed with care, feeling the muscles that protested and making note of those that yawned with relief after disuse and healing, and those that sharply condemned movement. The latter splintered with discomfort underneath her swathes of bandages and she moved stiffly to the door, taking care not to disturb them. Suddenly, she remembered her manners. "Oh, thank you Morrigan for all your... assistance."

Morrigan stopped in surprise from stripping the bed. Her expression, once distant and cool, became perplexed.

"You are welcome. Mother did most of the work; _I_ am no healer."

"Well, my thanks to you, all the same."

Charlotte opened the door and went out to see what little of the world she knew was left waiting for her.


	12. An Unlikely Recruit

Loghain hated the rain.

It clouded his vision and interfered with useful sounds that could protect his men in battle. So far, only a few darkspawn stragglers had made their way to the army's location at the other side of the valley, but their screams were almost lost in the wind, their galloping footsteps muffled by moss and thunder. One man had died and Loghain had no intention of sacrificing another.

The tower was ahead to his left; its beacon was its eye, made of stone buttresses that closed together like the fingers of a hand, soaring above the rest of the fortress as a watchful spectator. The Darkspawn must have overrun the tower by now. He knew the beacon would never be lit. If those two neophytes of Duncan's didn't die on the way there, Loghain imagined the girl would at least have the sense to stop while they were ahead. The alternative was nothing but suicide.

"Sir," Ser Cauthrien approached from behind, "Should we not charge? The men in the valley…"

"We must await the signal," Loghain replied firmly. "Without it we cannot be certain that we are not sacrificing the remaining forces against the Darkspawn threat. Have patience."

Cauthrien hesitantly nodded her assent and fell back, rallying the men again to keep them aware and ready.

Loghian preferred not to lie to his first officer – she had been very loyal - but she could not understand his decisions, his sacrifices. What he did was necessary for them all – in time, regardless of what came to light, he knew she and the Landsmeet would recognize that.

Down below, the men's screams had grown significantly fewer in number. Quiet became an eery forbearer of defeat. Loghain reminded himself again not to worry – these darkspawn were not the true threat.

The King had been lost in the foray; that ridiculous golden armor no longer stood out, probably disappearing under a coating of blood. These were the parts of war people forgot; they remembered the heroism and the victory, but the bloodshed was as neatly swept away as the ashes of bodies burned on a pyre. Of course, remarks would be made, certain acts extolled – but the details of what it takes to win a war are never discussed. It would bring down the celebrations of those left behind; making the wine they drank taste of blood. Loghain wondered if Cailan was already dead.

It was at that moment that Loghain heard the shouts and cries of glory, of hope. Heat briefly lit the night as fire erupted in the claws of the buttresses and burned with a strength that almost defied reality, considering the fog and rain. Disbelieving, the general stared at an impossible feat, his certainty blowing away with the wind.

"Sir! Sir!" Cauthrien ran up behind him again, at the ready.

A metallic taste filled Loghain's mouth. Discomfort expanded in his chest, leaving him scarce room to breathe; his vision, normally so clear and exact, blurred. Loghain sought an answer for this feeling and then he realized: it was panic.

As Ser Cauthrien reached him, the Teyrn grabbed her arm. Shocked, she gasped, nose-to-nose with her commander.

"Sound the retreat." The fire burned so brightly, it lit half of his face; the other was cast completely in shadow.

Ser Cauthrien stuttered, "But what about the king, shouldn't we-"

Roughly, Loghain shoved her away from him. "Do as I command."

There was no understanding; only trust. Her hesitation was brief, but it was enough. Loghain refused to look her in the eye, and Cauthrien went to the men, raising her arm to summon their attention.

"MOVE OUT!" She gestured in the direction opposite of the valley and, slowly, the men followed her away. Cauthrien cast one last glance over her shoulder, her expression lost in the dark.

Loghain remained, staring at the flickering light. How they had managed it, he did not know. It mattered little now – the field had been lost, Loghain could not undo what had already been done. But it disturbed him all the same. The fire did not cast light over the battlefield, but it shone on Loghain, sparkling off his silverite armor, now dazzling against the black of the night. From somewhere deep down, Loghain felt a sickening dread begin to grow.

After all, Loghain knew all too well the damage fire lit by a woman could do.

* * *

Charlotte and Alistair had collected their things. Flemeth wished to address the issue of how they were going to proceed in their assault upon the Darkspawn. Thus far, their collaboration fared poorly.

"Tis absurd! Why would I be their guide?"

Morrigan was irate, pale face lovely in the sunshine. Her mother smiled in a calculating way that made Charlotte wonder about the difficulty of Morrigan's childhood.

"Because, dear daughter, I wish it. Your magic could aid them, not mention they need your knowledge of the Wilds to escape from here while avoiding the horde."

Morrigan scowled.

Charlotte watched their argument with weary grief. While she understood the necessity of discussing their next steps against the Blight, it seemed to her that these strange women had more to say on the matter than her and Alistair put together in their current state. Realizing how wrong that was, Charlotte straightened and composed herself, shoving her dejection to one side.

Alistair cleared his throat, "With all due respect to you, er… Madam, the presence of an apostate in our midst could draw unwanted attention."

"'Madam' am I? I saved your life, boy. Show some respect." Flemeth pinched her face with disapproval, leaving Alistair quaking under her fiery glare.

Charlotte quickly intervened. "Begging your pardon, but you never told us your name."

"Names are pretty, but useless. The Chasind folk call me 'Flemeth'; I suppose it will do."

Alistair turned a little green, "Flemeth? By the Maker, you-"

"And we are eternally grateful to you, Flemeth," Charlotte interposed without reservation. "We are in shock," she looked sharply at Alistair, "Not to mention disbelief. We have an army to assemble and the Teyrn… he…" Charlotte trailed off, too horrified to say it aloud.

Alistair seemed fit to burst, "_Why _would he do such a thing? To gain power? How could he do it… through murder? He is risking civil war. I d-don't understand it!" Shoulders slumped as his passionate declaration ran its course. Duncan's death had cut Alistair deeply; he had been briefly elated to see Charlotte well enough to walk, then fallen back into misery as he commiserated over the news which Morrigan had already shared in the hut.

Flemeth snorted. "You say that as if he would be the first king gain the throne that way. Grow up, boy!"

Morrigan opened her mouth again to complain; seeing Alistair's distress, Charlotte was decided that the conversation needed to take a different turn. "Alistair, what _are _we going to do exactly?" She looked nervously at Flemeth, not certain she should be discussing this in front of her. "We have no army, no men to fight. It seems unlikely the Teyrn will help us."

Alistair looked more lost than ever. "I don't know. We've lost everything. Duncan…" His voice choked away into nothing; Morrigan snorted disdainfully and sulked. Charlotte felt terrible for Alistair's more personal loss, but felt an urgency to move forward and tried to soothe him with a gentle squeeze of the shoulder while remaining focused on the task at hand.

Flemeth watched them all, her clever eyes missing nothing. Furiously, Alistair blurted. "If Arl Eamon knew what Loghain had done, he wouldn't stand for it! The Landsmeet wouldn't stand for it!"

Puzzled, Charlotte inquired, "The Arl of Redcliffe?"

Alistair nodded, "Yes, do you know him?"

"Well, of course, but I haven't seen him in years. How do you know of the Arl? Do you hail from Redcliffe?"

Alistair fidgeted, "Something like that."

That was perhaps for another time. Changing the subject, Charlotte pointed out one piece of information which could be of use. "If nothing else, Alistair, Eamon was the King's uncle." She narrowed her eyes, thinking of tapestries stained with blood. "He will be most _displeased _at Loghain's treatment of his family."

Alistair's face cleared, "You're right! We could go to Redcliffe and appeal to him for help! We're on Cailan's side!"

Charlotte bit her lip, "Do we know that he will trust our word over the Teyrn's?"

"I'm sure of it!"

Flemeth snorted again, "You are too naïve, young man."

"No! I know him, he… He took me in as a boy. The Arl is a just and respected man. He will hear us fairly."

"And then cut off your heads as traitors as soon as you are done. What a foolish notion!" Morrigan pronounced dismissively.

"Hush, girl. And what could this Arl do for you, Alistair?" Flemeth inquired archly.

"His armies! They're still intact – King Cailan never sent for them. If Arl Eamon hears us and agrees to aid us in the fight against the Darkspawn, he could provide men."

"But surely not enough men – tis a beginning, but not the numbers you truly require." Flemeth looked at Charlotte, expression thoughtful. It was as if she held some unspoken expectation; Charlotte glanced at Alistair, who watched her with similar conviction. Charlotte tried to think.

"Alistair, I hate to pose the question, but I must ask… Do we know for certain that Teyrn Loghain deliberately abandoned the king? How can we be sure?"

"Because I witnessed it with my own eyes." Flemeth intervened before Alistair erupted. "Once the beacon lit the sky, he retreated from your ranks. You may deny it if you wish; you will only impose more suffering upon yourself and upon others."

Charlotte winced.

The likelihood that a noble would turn against another noble of such reputation the likes of which Teyrn Loghain possessed seemed slim to Charlotte, but what other choice did they have? Without the rest of the Grey Wardens, they lacked the necessary aid to combat the Blight and Arl Eamon could help solve that problem. Charlotte suddenly imagined her and Alistair, pitted against the thousands of beasts headed their way, with only their swords alone to protect Ferelden.

Swords.

The cogs in Charlotte's mind began furiously turning; '_Our blade is yours.' _The elven scripture at the bottom of the treaty the Dalish had signed over an age ago.

"Alistair, the treaties. What of the treaties?"

Flemeth grinned, lavender eyes glowing. "See, there's a smart lass."

Alistair nearly exploded with excitement, "Of course! Grey Wardens can demand the aid of the dwarves, elves, mages – anyone able, during a Blight!"

"I may be old," Flemeth drawled, "But dwarves, elves, mages, this Arl of Redcliffe's army, and who knows what else… That sounds like an army to me."

Alistair appealed to Charlotte, painfully eager. "So, can we do this? Go to Redcliffe and these other places and build an army?"

Charlotte wondered at the likelihood of accomplishing such a task. Fergus was still unaccounted for – although, she had to admit, he was most likely dead. With the King lost, he could not help her bring Howe to justice. Tamping down frustrated tears, Charlotte forced herself to face that, with only the two of them left and nothing personal to sustain her, the only reasonable choice was to keep going and seek the triumph of humankind over evil. Or die trying.

Mastodon chose this moment to pad forward; he had kept a respectful distance throughout their discussion, seeming to pay deference to Morrigan's dislike of him, as well as taking a little caution in Flemeth's presence. Now, he barked once as if to second his comrade and sat next to his mistress, tall and proud in his resolution.

Charlotte studied those soulful brown eyes, then nodded. "'Let the blade pass through my flesh, let my blood touch the ground, let mine be the last sacrifice.' Let us go and do this."

"So you are set, then? Ready to be Grey Wardens?" Flemeth regarded them enigmatically.

Charlotte agreed, "Yes, thank you for your help, Flemeth. We are truly in your debt."

In response, Flemeth smiled, her mood lightening drastically. "Such manners! And always in the last place you look… like stockings! Ahahaha!" She threw back her head, laughing uproariously. Alistair, obviously decided that this woman was quite mad, shifted from foot to foot and looked side-long at Charlotte.

Just as suddenly, Flemeth's smile evaporated; she grew serious. "If you take my daughter with you, consider it repayment for your lives." Softening her voice, Flemeth sealed her negotiaton. "I give you that which I value above all in this world."

An unladylike growl cut through the moment. "Have _I _no say in this?" Morrigan demanded. "I'm not even ready!"

The older witch narrowed her eyes; although she emitted no tell-tale sparks, her magical energy was palpable to Alistair's Templar-trained senses; he winced uncomfortably and attempted to think around it. "You must be ready. These two must unite all of Ferelden, they need you, Morrigan. Without you, they will surely fail."

"Thanks." Alistair droned doubtfully.

"Besides, you have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years. Go forth and see the world!" Flemeth cackled.

"Of course Morrigan is welcome, but I do not wish to take her against her will." Charlotte inserted with concern. Morrigan was singularly unimpressed by the gesture, crossing her arms haughtily and refusing to meet Charlotte's eyes.

"No!" Alistair agreed, "That would be terrible." His slight overabundance of enthusiasm made Charlotte frown.

Flemeth was as unimpressed as her daughter and flapped a cavalier hand. "She will be fine. A delicate flower she is not – but a foolish girl, well, no one can be certain, hahaha!"

This made Morrigan grow still. After a moment, her posture relaxed slightly and she huffed a response, "I… understand. Allow me to get my things, if you please." She returned to the hut, back stiff, only to emerge shortly thereafter with a small knapsack and unhappy expression. Charlotte could empathize with the feeling, although she was uncertain that Morrigan did not wish to leave her mother as much as she did not wish to go with her and Alistair.

Attempting to be friendly, Charlotte offered a comforting tone. "We are glad of your help, Morrigan. You are most welcome."

Morrigan raised one eyebrow, but said nothing. Charlotte thanked Flemeth once more and Morrigan suggested a route to Lothering, the nearest village. In agreement, they departed, Charlotte falling in line between Mastodon and Alistair. Flemeth was still smiling and provided a queenly wave to her daughter, who gritted her teeth in return. "Goodbye _Mother._" Chin lifted, Morrigan forged ahead, delicate hands wrapped around the straps of her pack. Her stave bounced in a harness attached to it, leaving Charlotte wondering how heavy it might be.

Alistair was still unconvinced and whispered his doubts to Charlotte. "Are you certain we should do this? I mean, she's an apostate! She cannot really be trusted."

Trying not to be irritable, Charlotte replied. "People respond as you expect them to. Whatever quarrel you have with her personally – and I know that you do." She raised her eyebrows. "Morrigan possesses skills beyond our ability. We can use her, so let us not make an enemy by accident." She attempted to mimic an expression that her mother once did when she knew Charlotte was apt to trouble, "…Or on purpose."

Alistair scowled briefly, but then relented. "Very well, but don't say I didn't warn you!"

As they trundled out of the fog and into the lush green arms of the Wilds, Charlotte could feel the old woman staring after her. When she turned at the end of the path one last time to glance back, Flemeth and the hut were gone.


	13. Bandits, Bandits Everywhere

The three nights they spent in the Wilds spooked Charlotte, although she would never admit it - particularly to Morrigan, who proved to be singularly intolerant of anything approaching weakness. Though it would have been preferable to make their leave of the Wilds sooner, avoiding the horde had proved trickier than they anticipated. They made do with what they had; Alistair turned out to be a fair tracker and hunter, accompanying Charlotte to catch rabbits and a few fish. Morrigan was disdainful and querulous, keeping mostly to herself with the exception of making potions or exchanging insults with Alistair. The hostility between those two blossomed like a putrid flower, her barbed remarks becoming only more acidic as Alistair blustered in return.

"Harpy! She's heinous! Why did we bring her?"

Alistair was glowering after a particularly nasty exchange in which Morrigan called him a "primitive buffoon" and then laughed when he called her an "ice-hearted man-eater."

"Indeed!" She beamed with amusement. "My poor virtue is stung to its very core!"

Now, Charlotte walked alongside him in the woods. They were to set off for Lothering and arrive, all being well, sometime that morning. Before leaving camp, they hunted one more time to ensure food and water, going to a nearby river to fill their waterskins after catching two rabbits and moving on to pick some herbs for Morrigan. Finding clean water had become increasingly difficult as the taint of the darkspawn spread, killing entire swaths of the forest around them.

"You really shouldn't antagonize her. She's not accustomed to our social rules and therefore does not feel obligated to abide by them; you're only bringing the cat to the mousehole when you insult her."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence," Alistair replied, making as if he were stung. "In a game of wits I can take her any time I set my mind to." After a moment, he muttered, "As long as she doesn't royally piss me off first."

Smiling, Charlotte bent to retrieve the last of a few herbs Morrigan had requested. "Elfroot to the Mundane," she had instructed breezily. "Should you injure yourself, it will be the best I can provide you."

"She seems to like you, as much as a foul woman can like anyone." Alistair frowned at the leafy bit in his hands, clearly uncertain.

"That's Deathroot, I think. As I explained to you before, people respond to what you expect of them. I treat Morrigan as I would want to be treated and she leaves me be. It's rather simple."

Alistair "Harrumphed!" and cast aside the poisonous weed, moving over to another plant a few feet away.

Slyly, Charlotte asked, "Are you sure you're not cross because you like her?"

Abruptly, Alistair stood and dropped a fern he had picked, "What? Are you mad?"

Charlotte shrugged. "Well, she is rather beautiful, when you get a good look at her. And those clothes she wears, well… they don't trouble themselves with modesty, do they?" Charlotte peeked at him out of the corner of her eye, gauging his reaction.

Rather than blushing, Alistair was outraged. "Absolutely not! She may be all slinky bits and a soothing voice to silly men who like that sort of thing, but I see her for what she is." Alistair leaned in and whispered intensely: "Evil."

Charlotte couldn't help it; she laughed. It felt good and short of shocking, after the events of that last week. Alistair was not amused.

"Very well; I shall not press the issue further." Chortling a little, Charlotte tied the Elfroot with a string.

On their way back, Alistair fell into an uncomfortable silence. Initially, it escaped Charlotte's notice as she focused on finding their way back to camp and walking with care to accommodate her still sore ribs, which were much better but not entirely recovered from being broken, as well as shot with arrows (Alistair had not hesitated to share all the gory details, apparently desperate to relieve himself of responsibility over the mental image of her nearly dying). Finally, his blushing, sidelong glances caught her attention.

"Alistair, are you well?"

"What? Yes! Fine. Couldn't be better. Huh." Alistair cleared his throat, hazel eyes flitting up to hers anxiously.

Charlotte went from content to unsettled; the silence grew thicker.

Teyrn Cousland, in an ill-fated attempt to reassure her, had once compared sparring to courting – a few steps forward here, some calculated strikes to bring your opponent closer or farther away, a dance to the side there – and not improved her taste for it. Now that she was a Grey Warden, she wondered if chastity was the norm. After all, she was tainted. Surely no one could want her?

Alistair had told her of their fate shortly after they made camp in the Wilds. From what Duncan had told him in the short time since Alistair had joined the order, Grey Wardens suffered a limited lifespan, concluded by an event he described as "The Calling", where a Grey Warden went into the Deep Roads to die. The buzzing Charlotte heard and felt was the call of the Archdemon and her… fellow darkspawn. "But we're obviously different then they are," Alistair explained. "It's just that we share their taint so we can… hear them."

"What else?" She'd demanded, determined to know the extent of the truth.

Alistair shifted, clearly distressed on her behalf. "Having you had any strange dreams since your Joining?"

Fractured images of vivid nightmares came back to her; she shivered and nodded.

"That's the Taint. I'm not sure why, but we all have them. Sometimes, you see the Archdemon, and those of us who have been around longer can even, well, they say they can understand what it is saying." Shrugging, he added, "I sure can't. Either way, it's us tapping into what Duncan called their 'group mind'. The archdemon it..."talks" to the horde and we feel it just as they do. That's why we know this is really a Blight."

Apart from that, Charlotte could look forward to an enlarged appetite, as well as increased strength and speed. These seemed reasonable trade-offs, until Charlotte sensed Alistair was keeping something from her.

"What? What are you hiding?"

Discomfited, Alistair murmured, "You most likely won't be able to have children." The warm hazel gaze was full of sympathy at Charlotte's shocked expression.

This hit Charlotte hard. Despite her fears of unwanted marriage, she had always imagined the pitter-patter of small feet in her future. Now it seemed not only her family, but any possibility of her dreams, had been wrenched cruelly from her hands.

So, she had resolved to remain solely focused on her mission. If she thought of anything else, she worried her head would explode with all the injustice, and she could not falter in her quest.

In the distance, Morrigan was complaining. Her voice carried through the trees, bringing Charlotte out of her troubled thoughts.

"Stop looking at me, mongrel. I have nothing you want!" A plaintive whine.

"Why do you keep staring at me so, you flea-ridden beast? Can you not tell when you are not wanted?" Mastodon barked urgently.

"Ah," Morrigan's voice took on a lilting tone. "Tis your own fault for being so gluttonous. Several of those herbs were poisonous. You should be pleased they did not kill you." This was followed by another unhappy whine.

"Oh please! You ate my entire bag of herbs, you foolish dog. Do not think I am unaware of where it went." Goaded, Mastodon responded in three short barks.

The awkward silence was too much; she needed some relief. "I'll just… give these to Morrigan." Charlotte jogged ahead, avoiding Alistair's eyes.

Alistair puffed in relief and disappointment, exhaling a shaky breath. Her petite figure was cut in shadow against the rising sun, now higher in sky than when they woke early that morning. She had tied that magnificent hair back into an elaborate braid; her skin had glowed in the morning dew. Since her Joining, Charlotte had been kind and brave, accepting him without question and leading him and the witch with a steady hand. She laughed at his jokes and didn't ask him to talk about Duncan, changing the subject when Morrigan made snarky remarks. She cooked rabbit and fish without charring them in the campfire and loved her hound. And she could fight with daggers.

"I'm a goner." Alistair told no one in particular, and trailed hopefully after her.

* * *

The Imperial Highway stretched like a shining ribbon to civilization from the muddy backwater they'd traversed since leaving Flemeth's hut. Though it crumbled in places, it spoke of warm beds, supplies, and food that didn't squeak or squirm immediately before you ate it.

Charlotte was especially excited for the change; though she had borne these conditions with as much equanimity as she could muster – she was her mother's daughter, after all – she was weary of torn breeches stiff with mud and cold, hard surfaces not fit for sleeping on. She imagined warm bath water with dreamy elation, and tankards of apple wine with bread and cheese for supper.

"Oi, who are they?" Alistair indicated a group of men lounging with cynical disinterest on piles of crates near the ramp leading into Lothering. Jerked from her pleasant fantasy, Charlotte narrowed her eyes.

"I don't know," Charlotte answered, her voice dropping cautiously, "But they don't look like they're up to any good." She and Morrigan exchanged wary looks. Subtly, Morrigan dropped back and placed one hand on her wooden stave. Mastodon growled, shaking his coat with a scornful chuff.

As they drew near, a man separated from the group, hailing them with a wave. "Look here! Greetings, travelers! Fatigued? Hungry? Please, come closer!" He fully unwound a lanky frame that was protected by scuffed leathers; at his hips a sword hung in its scabbard.

"Be careful what you wish for," Charlotte said quietly to Alistair. He snickered.

Their dark and handsome leader bee-lined forward, his face splitting into a jolly grin. When Charlotte looked more closely, she saw a sinister undertone that did not bode well.

Behind the lounging men, Charlotte saw the trophies of an ill-natured beast – coins, clothing, some shiny trinkets. A woman's dress draped haphazardly over the side of a cart screamed like a beacon in the night. "Highway men," Alistair spat with disdain. "Vultures." Charlotte scowled in agreement, her attention divided between the man approaching them and the collection of bandits flanking his rear.

"Uh, boss," A large bald man with a generous waist contemplated their group with what seemed to be a great deal of effort. "These ones dunna look like the others." He whispered theatrically, "They seem _dangerous_." Nervously, he stood up to face Charlotte's party, "Maybe we betta leave 'em alone."

"Nonsense, Brom! Everyone must pay the toll. Hello! It is a fine morning, is it not?" The dark one who had separated from the rest exuded the air of someone nasty and accustomed to seeing things unfold in his favor. Charlotte came to a watchful halt, the others behind her already subtly moving into positions that might be necessary later.

Placing one hand on the hilt of her dagger, Charlotte warned, "It will continue to be so when you allow us to pass."

The man tutted with disappointment; the rest of the men in his band came to their feet, their weapons and armor scraping on moving limbs, the small scuffs and chinks serving as a return warning to Charlotte and her companions. "Now, is that any way to greet someone? Pay your ten silvers and you'll be free to move on." His smile stretched painfully thin, the shadow hiding underneath stirring restlessly.

Mastodon snarled, ears flattened back and teeth bared; most had the sense to gain some distance. The slight shift of power was not lost on their leader; when he saw most of his men draw fearfully back, his mask slipped ever so slightly, malicious intent now glittering openly in his black eyes.

"Now, now," he murmured softly. "Let us remember ourselves, shall we?" Threat implicit, he placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. Behind him, the other men did likewise, though with less conviction.

Charlotte smiled; she had no time for this. Lothering waited beyond his shoulder, the Chantry rising proudly above the village and, in the distance, her intended stop for rest and food: Bann Ceorlic's estate. She would be damned if some petty thief was going to come between her and much-needed comfort.

"Are you so confident as to challenge Grey Wardens?" She removed her long dagger from her belt. "Perhaps I could use the exercise." Charlotte twirled the hilt in her fingers, her smile morphing into a humorless smirk.

The cocksure demeanor slipped away, with the leader's mirthful grimace giving to a face of shocked horror. "Grey Wardens!"

Brom's eyes widened, "Them what's killed the King!" The rest of the highway men began muttering amongst themselves, clearly perturbed. Morrigan chuckled quietly behind Charlotte, clearly enjoying the moment.

The bandit commander quickly regained his humor, showing his teeth again; "And quite a fine bounty on your head, or so I've heard. Teyrn Loghain is offering to pay it personally to whomever finds what's left of you Grey Wardens." He gestured merrily to the others, "What say you, men? Would you like to eat for a year?" He leered arrogantly at Charlotte.

Alistair was shaking with rage, "What did you just say?"

Seeing one of the men behind him make a hand signal, Charlotte drew her shorter dagger, bracing herself for impact. "Not now, Alistair! Morrigan!"

"Indeed," the marsh witch bent at the waist; flares of light crackling from her stave as a wicked smile crossed her face. With the shout of her first spell cast, chaos ensued.

Charlotte tore quickly through three men; her increased power left a heady residue like a kind of euphoria. Alistair attacked out of anger, his face contorted as he bashed the slow sidekick, Brom, down with his shield. Mastodon dove into the fray, bringing down two men who had thought it better to escape. When Charlotte engaged the dark-haired menace who led the party, a group attempted to ambush her, only to be thrown back into the horseless cart and a pile of crates by one of Morrigan's spells.

Those not killed scurried away, leaving only fearful glances behind them. Breathing hard, Charlotte brought their commander to his knees, one dagger held against his trembling throat.

"Now," she exhaled roughly, Alistair and Mastodon coming to stand with intimidating purpose behind her. "Shall we try again?"

A trickle of blood revived his sense of priorities; "Fine! No toll! No bounty! Now let me go!" She nicked his chin, propping it up with the point of her blade to make her intentions clear. "What is this that you speak of? Who has said we killed the King?"

His eyes begged for mercy, voice shrill with alarm. "The Teyrn! Teyrn Loghain returned from Ostagar and declared you all traitors. He said that you killed the King and then were defeated by the Darkspawn. He said he got his armies out just in the nick of time!"

Alistair had gone deathly pale; Charlotte understood his anger, but was more focused on what this news could mean for their cause. If they were deemed as traitors, keen eyes would be everywhere, with hands curled impatiently over lengths of rope.

"And what else do you know? The longer you talk the more value you add to your life."

"Nothing! The Teyrn has declared himself Regent, I think. That's all I know!"

"So, it seems power was the jewel of this man's eye after all," Morrigan purred. "He has tipped his hand rather extravagantly." Her lips curled with relish.

Charlotte considered this man's life in her hands; surely there was enough death already without adding to the growing ocean of blood. Trust, however, was in short supply. If she let him go, would he return the favor?

Charlotte looked him square in the eye. "I will cast you loose, however-" Charlotte glanced at Alistair. "I cannot speak for my companions; what they choose to do is between them and the Maker." She roughly cast him aside as she released him from the hair.

The man scrambled to get away; his hope was short-lived. Before he had fully turned his back, Alistair had decapitated him cleanly with her family's blade, then watched his twitching body fall to the ground. He wiped and then sheathed his sword, still silent and shaking.

"Very well." Charlotte accepted it and moved on. "This alters our situation considerably. How should we proceed?"

Morrigan shrugged, carefully sidestepping the pool of blood as she observed the dead man's head. "Were I you, I might consider more deceptive pathways. Then again, it might be wiser to withdraw altogether – if they do not want your help, why should you risk your life in offering it?"

Alistair was indignant, "Abandon Ferelden in a Blight? You really are an evil witch!"

"Found your voice again, Templar? Or are you yet done contemplating your navel and drowning in self-pity?"

"Enough!" Charlotte snapped irritably, stepping between them. "That is not an option, Morrigan. You've brought us this far; if you choose to leave us now due to our wanted status, then I cannot blame you. But I warn you," Charlotte drew closer, her expression calm but deadly, "If you attempt to betray us, you will pay for it with your life."

Morrigan smirked, unperturbed. "Oh no, I think not. However, your point is taken. I shall consider your offer." She drifted away to sift through the highway men's spoils. Mastodon stared after her with concern, tail wagging uncertainly. He did not wish the female pack member who made delicious leaves into even more delicious liquids to leave.

"This is most unfortunate," Charlotte sighed wearily, sheathing her weapons. "In fact, I am not sure I can imagine our circumstances becoming any darker. How can we ask for help when we are wanted for treason?"

Alistair had forgotten his anger in favor of anxiety, although he made a brave effort to control it. After a moment's wrinkled concentration, he shrugged his massive shoulders. "I don't know. We need more help. There's no way around it – the Grey Wardens are a respected order. Surely that counts for something?"

The blood was beginning to smell; Charlotte tried to concentrate around its sour stench. "Not if everyone believes we killed the King. We're going to have to be very careful." Charlotte bit her lip, staring across the bridge and again at Bann Ceorlic's estate, wondering if he – and his garrison – were home. Ceorlic was known for being rather careful about the law, not to mention preserving his own skin. If he knew she were here, he would not hesitate to arrest her and Alistair.

Mastodon had followed Morrigan; he kept enough of a distance back that it seemed coincidental rather than deliberate, sniffing at crates and bodies along the way. The North Road stretched before them toward Redcliffe, its promise of that morning now filled with risk and foreboding.

"Here's what I believe we should do," Charlotte offered following a short pause. "Let us go into Lothering and gather supplies. We can't do anything – not even hide, if we need to – unless we have some more food and repair our weapons and armor. Then, we will monitor the climate regarding our capture. Who knows," She tucked a stray piece of hair behind one ear. "With a Blight impending, maybe we are the least of people's problems."

Alistair stared at her for a moment that grew in intimacy as it lengthened. Finally, he asked, "Is that the natural color of your hair?"

Stumped, she responded, "Pardon?"

"It's just such a rich red; I've never seen anything like it." Charlotte flushed. "Alistair, while I am… appreciative of your compliment, we have much more pressing matters. Did you hear a word I said?"

"Sorry, yes – that sounds like the best plan. Let's wait and see, work from there." Alistair cleared his throat, obviously embarrassed.

Flustered, Charlotte merely nodded. "Good, then we are in agreement. I shall fetch Morrigan and… see if the highway vultures left behind any useful supplies."

Charlotte picked her way through the pieces of broken wood and dead bodies. Rifling through the pockets of the vanquished offended her noble sensibilities, but she now knew what it was like not to have enough to eat or keep warm, and with her pool of resources becoming increasingly smaller in light of the bandit's news, she felt that it was time to stop standing on ceremony.

Morrigan materialized like a ghost. "So, did the buffoon attempt to work his magic upon your weak female senses?" She glanced over one shoulder at a still pink-faced Alistair, who was bending to take something from underneath the smashed cart. "They would indeed have to be weak to find a _specimen_ such as he appealing."

Aghast, Charlotte chastised Morrigan a little too loudly. "Stop that! No such thing happened!" Mastodon and Alistair both regarded them with alarm. Quickly, Charlotte bent to a chest and pried it open, hiding her burning face and lowering her voice so only Morrigan could hear her.

"You _must _stop alienating everyone around you, Morrigan." For once, the mage looked insulted. "ME? You would do well to-"

Charlotte cut her off. "You are a potentially valuable addition to our numbers; I am grateful to have found someone of such skill and intelligence, but dissonance in our limited ranks only worsens our situation further. I meant what I said: If you are unable to serve with us peaceably, then you are unable to serve with us at all. That said," Charlotte pocketed some sovereigns and a few silver coins from the chest, handing the rest to Morrigan. "I do not wish for your absence. I will leave it up to you."

The witch appeared speechless; Charlotte moved on to the body of one of the bandits. She turned him slightly over and took a dagger from his belt; in his pocket were a few silvers. Charlotte studied his armor to see if it would be useful to sell or repair for herself.

Morrigan bent over, outstretching one hand. In it were the sovereigns and silvers Charlotte had handed her, "Why did you give me these?"

Charlotte was earnest, "Why wouldn't I? You've provided us with very useful services since you joined us. In fact, you should take your pick from these men and their stolen goods. If you are to leave us, I wouldn't be at all comfortable with you going without the means to care for yourself." Morrigan furrowed her brow.

"You wish to reward me for my services, even if I leave you? How curious." Morrigan studied the offer cupped in her pale fingers. Finally, she stood straight, her demeanor brusque.

"I have decided to stay; however, I also have some conditions." She raised an imperious eyebrow. Sighing, Charlotte rose from her knees and checked to make sure Alistair wasn't listening. "I am not surprised. I will meet them to the best of my ability. What are they?"

"I believe they are simple but fair; I want a portion of whatever bounty you collect on your travels. If I am to make my way outside the Wilds, it seems only sensible that I should collect what is necessary to survive. Further, keep your filthy mongrel away from me. Thirdly, if I choose to stay out of a fight, you will forgo the right to order me as our leader. Do we have an accord?"

Charlotte did her best to keep her temper; she always found waiting until the fuzzy edges of her vision had grown more focused worked admirably. "No, we don't. Yes, you may share in whatever bounty we are able to procure, although I cannot make any specific guarantees. And of course I will never order you to risk your life against your will. But if you insult my dog again," Charlotte promised, "I will wrap those silly feathers around your neck until you shudder out your last breath. Agreed?" Charlotte held out her hand, her expression uncompromising. No one mocked Mastodon.

After some consideration, Morrigan nodded once. "I shall look forward to doing business together. And I don't shake hands." She wrinkled her nose delicately, "The amount of touching expected in your culture offends me; I find it most violating."

"Whatever," Charlotte said, dropping her hand. She was weary of this dance – persuade, threaten, soothe, persuade. "Make sure we don't leave anything potentially useful behind."

"As you say, oh fearless leader." Morrigan overturned a chest with the flick of her stave, causing a startled Mastodon to bark at it in alarm. A few feet away, Alistair rolled his eyes, ignoring the urge to reprimand Morrigan with studied diligence. Seeing this, the witch leered, strolling gracefully among the crates towards a burlap sack that had been left behind.

_Oh fearless leader. _Charlotte watched these three distinctly different individuals sifting, sniffing, and smirking, and honestly wondered where she might take them.

* * *

_edited 7/12/2013_


	14. The Mad Dog and His Rat

**_Hi! _**_I saw that some people checked this today. Thank you for reading! I really hope you are enjoying the story so far; I know it's canon, but I will be doing some different things with it as time goes on and not sticking strictly to original interpretations. Please send reviews, I get shamelessly excited whenever I see one. I want to make the story better for my readers. Thanks again! :)_

* * *

Arl Rendon Howe couldn't be more pleased.

Standing over the bustling Market Square in Denerim, Howe's smile gleamed like the blade of a knife being withdrawn from its scabbard. Contrary to most, his glee only contorted his sharp, repugnant face into something even more repelling. Little grey eyes watched ever so closely over a long, pointed nose that twitched with constant calculation. This was not a man of politics who lead others toward a unifying vision, but a man who understood opportunity and did whatever was necessary to seize it for his own.

Speaking of opportunity… Loghain was somewhere hulking around the palace, scowl firmly in place. Howe chuckled to himself; the mad dog had only continued to misplace his marbles, following every little thing Howe said, eager to take orders as he watched civil war bubble up like a witch's brew. Not even Anora could undo his hold now, such was Loghain's reliance on him. He had sanctioned Howe's attack on Teyrn Cousland as a fitting exchange for the loyal service Howe was ready to offer and allowed him free reign to enlist the help of the new Arl of Denerim, Vaughn Kendall, despite his distaste for the man. Loghain had been ripe for the picking before Ostagar, troubled over Cailan's betrayal and the impending invasion of Orlais. Howe had been astonished when he'd initially read the letters, but then had to admit he was unsurprised that Cailan would be so foolish. He was his father's son, after all.

Outside the palace, royal pennants whipped crisply in the wind, the royal colors bright in the spring sun. Inside all was hurried activity as the servants rushed to and fro, serving Loghain and Howe's every need, keeping busy under Loghain's impatient gaze. Howe moved away from the window to better contemplate his circumstances and was not disappointed: A four-poster bed extended grandly into the room like a wide pair of open arms, its mahogany head-board and posts polished to a gleaming shine. The stone floors were covered with thick rugs from Orlais, hand-woven in lurid colors and designs entirely foreign to Ferelden. The walls were more dignified, displaying ceiling-high tapestries depicting the hunt and the pride of Ferelden dogs. A fire roared warmly in the grate and a long table – also polished mahogany – caught its light in pleasing flickers, which continued their dance up the sides of a silver setting with Howe's breakfast steaming inside.

Papers littered the table; the fruit of his labors. There lay his edicts as the new Teyrn of Highever, as the continued Arl of Amaranthine, and as the soon-to-be Arl of Denerim, a position which he would be humbly accepting in the necessary correspondence. Howe grinned to himself, revealing uneven yellow teeth. He was going to get what he deserved, and more.

Delilah and Thomas had remained at Vigil's Keep upon Howe's orders. Delilah was a dutiful girl, not to mention a homebody like her mother, while Thomas presumably remained to exhaust Amaranthine's ale supply without anyone there to slow him down. Delilah knew nothing of Howe's plans; Thomas had a rough idea. If Howe had it his way, Thomas would be dried out and crowned King, but with a barren Queen potentially in the offing, Howe knew better than to suggest it. The alternative, of course, was to present Delilah for the throne, but she would never take it. It was times like this that Howe grated over the disappointment Nathaniel had become; his untenable preoccupation with a peasant girl had forced Howe to send him to the Free Marches and teach him a lesson. Perhaps, in the coming months as things were settled, it would be possible to send for him.

A soft knock echoed off the door. "My lord." The elven servant curtsied, eyes wide, a prim bun failing to hide those pointed ears. Howe wondered what she might fetch him with the Tevinter slavers he had written earlier this week. Negotiations were tense with them; since he had no use left for Vaughn, they had grown suspicious and wary, wanting assurance that his taking over the Arling was not an indication that they were being led into a trap by some kind of regulating authority.

"What is it, girl?" He snapped, eyes narrowing unkindly.

"The Teyrn wishes to see you immediately in his chamber." She curtsied again, clearly nervous to displease him. Howe arched his shoulders, glad people finally understood whom they were dealing with.

"I will be there momentarily." She hurried from his midst, relieved to deliver the message.

Howe made his way casually to the state apartments, where Loghain would no doubt be taking refuge in an office he referred to as his "war room." It had seen a rather disheveled state in the last few weeks since his return to Denerim. While Howe lurked in the background, carefully sliding pieces together, Loghain grabbed with the desperation of a drowning man, leaving much broken in his wake.

First, there had been the coffers. They were virtually empty, much of them spent on the march to Ostagar and other mysterious expenses tracing back to Cailan (presumably, as part of his effort to invite Orlais, like a murderous whore, into their borders). Loghain had clearly not expected that; it made him amenable indeed to Howe's suggestion and now the promise of gold beyond Howe's wildest dreams would be realized and the foul Alienage emptied of its garbage in one clean sweep.

The second blow had come when dissonance had been expressed at the emergency Landsmeet that Loghain had assembled immediately after Ostagar. Bann Teagan had been particularly displeased, expressing much doubt towards Loghain's intentions as Anora's Regent. This had shaken the Teyrn, despite his gruff refutations, particularly since they had sent that blood mage to have Eamon poisoned before he could slow Loghain down. If Bann Teagan was already suspicious, Loghain had wondered, what would he say when he learned of the mysterious illness that took his brother? Howe had offered to find another "solution" to Teagan's problem, but Loghain had resolutely waved him away, preferring to sit back and be patient.

Finally, there was Anora. Following her initial shock and grief, doubt had begun to stir. When Loghain had broken down and shared a sample of Celene's and Cailan's letters, Anora received the news with hard equanimity. Since then, an unsettling calmness had stolen over her, leaving her father in ribbons over what she might be thinking and Howe keeping one beady eye on her every move.

Howe reached the state apartments and made his way back to Loghain's rooms. A hard knock was followed by Loghain's curt, "Enter!" Howe swung the door open with a whine on its hinges; his boots scuffed against the bare stone. Loghain had removed all auxiliary comforts in his chambers, preferring to live like the young soldier he had once been. Loghain sat with hunched shoulders at a small desk; his long form, carved into stone-like musculature from years of combat training, was radiating tension.

"You called for me, Loghain?" Howe took pleasure in dispensing with formalities, putting Loghain's import beneath his own.

"See this," Loghain snapped, shoving in his hand a piece of paper clearly rolled and unrolled over again, as if doing so would disprove the eyes of the reader. Howe accepted it with a polite sneer and quickly read the message. A moment later, his pallor grew even greyer in color.

"Surely this cannot be true? How could they have survived at Ostagar?"

Loghain rose so quickly from his chair that it shot back, falling over with a loud clatter on the floor. He paced like an angry animal, thick black brows pushed hard together as he gripped his face with furious disbelief. "I do not know! It is impossible!" Loghain offered nothing more, continuing to pace, his face racing with a series of calculations.

Howe deliberated, studying the letter again. It was a short message, scripted in a delicate hand; while its exact source could not be proven absolutely, the meaning behind it was unmistakable.

_We know what you have done. And you will pay. This, we swear._

No signature, nothing to trace it back to any particular person… or particular order. Damn those Grey Wardens! Damn them to an interminable Hell! Howe thought very quickly.

"Your Grace," Howe spoke in a voice strong and clear, wishing to command an air of authority. "This is easily dealt with, with the right contacts made. Allow me to be of assistance."

Loghain stopped pacing, his expression irascible. "Yes? What do you suggest we do?"

Howe carefully folded the letter, every movement executed to exude an absolute calm. If he did not panic, Loghain would see this, Howe knew, and continue to trust him as a valuable ally throughout these difficult times.

Not immediately answering, the Arl approached Loghain's hearth. He held out the letter by one corner, watching the flames. The fire, like that which burned in his room, roared warmly, well-tended by its humble masters. Howe enjoyed the way the flames licked eagerly forward, as if reaching for the bit of paper in his hands.

Slowly, the Arl dropped the scroll into the fire. It hissed briefly, before curling up like a dying spider, turning black against the charred coals of wood. Transfixed, the two men watched as flakes of ash floated upward, before disappearing into the blaze. The light threw their faces into warm relief; Loghain's expression was calmer, but reserved. Howe smiled, little reflections of orange and yellow dancing in his black eyes.

"Let us compose a letter of our own. It will produce a suitable messenger."


	15. The Monarch in the Iron Mask

Lothering seemed to have exploded; when Alistair, Charlotte, and Morrigan stealthily joined the crowds, they were immediately horrified by the unbelievable conditions that met them.

Refugees from much of the South had fled, escaping with so little food or coin that now they begged, shoulder to shoulder, on Lothering's suddenly-teeming streets. The smell of stagnant sewage was ripe in the air, and people milled with haunted faces that were streaked with dirt. Babies, women, and even men cried openly to passerby, mourning loved ones lost to the Darkspawn and empty bellies that would receive little to no nourishment. The Chantry, according to rumor, was refusing any more castaways, claiming a full house and limited food supplies. As a result, people were scrabbling at each other in panic, securing what little they could. Nearby, an elven man leered fearfully away from a group of _shem_, trying to shield his wife and daughter as they angrily accused him of stealing. A Chasind man was screaming hysterically of doom in the Chantry courtyard under the terrified and disapproving gaze of a host of onlookers, some Chantry brothers and Templars among them. Completely unaware of the scene her brethren were trying to contain, a Sister argued vehemently with one of the local tradesmen in front of the Chantry, who had increased his prices in hopes of absconding with enough funds to reach Denerim. Those not involved in conflict shrank away, too hungry, tired, or sick to speak up for themselves.

Charlotte watched the melee with a mixture of heartache and disgust; her fellow Fereldens were suffering, and here was she, lurking in the shadows as she attempted to slip by unnoticed, an outcast among those she wished to help.

"It's awful," Alistair murmured to her, sharing in her horror, excluding a frowning Morrigan from their conversation. His eyes scraped over the tears and desperation. "Is there nothing we can do?"

It turned out there really wasn't. Charlotte intervened with the abominable merchant, very nearly lifting him by the scruff of his collar as she used her powers of persuasion to help him see the error of his ways. The man was gruffly furious, but kept his peace, brushing himself off with a scowl. "Eh? Fine then, have it your way! But I'll not lower my prices further, not even for the likes of you! Now trade with me or be off." The grateful Chantry Sister offered her blessing and hurried away to alert some of her charges to the now-affordable source of medicine and food.

"What have you in the way of armor?" Charlotte demanded, ruffled by the very existence of this man. He showed her some overpriced studded leathers and a lumpy gambeson; Charlotte settled for patches and thread, which she would use to repair her already worn set.

Displeased to have provided her with something of a bargain, the merchant hurriedly handed over her purchases and swept her off, turning to the next customer. It was just as well; his supply of food was limited to stale rye bread and salted herring, dried to cracking. Charlotte pocketed her remaining coin in a velvet purse, hidden in the confines of her breastplate, where only the bravest of fools would attempt to liberate it from her.

They moved quietly through the village, observing the goings-on of those around them. It seemed the place was close to boiling over, with so many people fighting over the limited resources of food, medicine, and water. One kind elder of the village offered her help to passerby, covering a nasty cough which indicated her own illness. Feeling a surge of warmth for this woman's unconditional generosity in such terrible conditions, Charlotte deposited 10 silver into her hand, melting away into the crowd before the old woman could question her. The woman's shouted thanks restored a modicum of peace in Charlotte.

"Well, 'twould seem our journey here has been in vain. Perhaps we should move on?" Morrigan quirked an eyebrow in askance, breaking the moment; in response, Alistair spluttered.

"Be nice, children." Charlotte interceded. Mastodon, who had been sniffing at the smaller humans to try and understand their source of distress, joined his mistress with a sloppy grin that somehow calmed Alistair and made Morrigan wrinkle her forehead in irritable assent. Mastodon whined plaintively then, attempting to communicate his thoughts to the group. Understanding, Charlotte patted him, and he sat back in a satisfied sort of way on his haunches.

"Morrigan makes a reasonable point," Charlotte said, in spite of Alistair's silent objections, communicated with widened eyes and a bodily twitch. "However, we still need more food before we can set up camp elsewhere to rest. And I would like to find out what has become of the Bann; it seems he has done little to aid his vassals and I feel it is my obligation to help the Templars before we move on. After all, if they do not have their Bann, who will lead them through this crisis?"

Alistair beamed with approval, while Mastodon panted and Morrigan scowled. "May I remind you," she huffed, "That you are supposed to be _avoiding_ the attentions of authoritative figures?" Charlotte waved her away.

"I won't tell them who I _am_, Morrigan; I'm not a fool."

Crossing her thin arms, the witch barely muttered loud enough for anyone to hear. "Then your behavior is most deceiving." Taking offense, Mastodon whined at Morrigan, who flushed and replied impatiently. "I wasn't talking to _you, _Mongrel!"

Charlotte chose to ignore this, "Alistair, I think it necessary that we stay together in this hubbub, do you agree?" He nodded, growing somber. "Yes, it would seem much safer." Distressed, Alistair scanned the small Market square, eyes lingering on the craving faces of the hopeless.

"Then let us go to the Chantry," Charlotte decided. "There may be more… reliable word there on what needs to be done."

Unfortunately, there was little the commander of Lothering's remaining Templars could offer. "I'm sorry, my lady, but the Bann left before the battle at Ostagar. From what I understand, he will not be returning until the village is better secured." Ser Bryant bowed his head regretfully, several different emotions flashing across his face before he resumed his polite mask.

Charlotte was quaking with outrage, "He _left_ them? He just left? Just like that?"

Alistair gave Morrigan a sidelong glance, "Remind me never to anger her." She snorted, "I should very much like to see the result if you did." They grimaced at each other humorlessly.

Ser Bryant, evidently anxious to appease Charlotte, drew back their attention. "I will stay as long as I am needed, my lady. You can be assured of that." Ser Bryant glanced over her, studying her armor and the long daggers crossed at her back. "If I may… you seem rather unlike the refugees here. Are you one of Arl Eamon's knights?"

Charlotte was already prepared with a lie: "No, we are with the army. We just came from Ostagar. Why? Are the Arl's knights here?" This was too good to be true – perhaps they could help her and Alistair reach Arl Eamon.

The Templar was obviously not fooled, but wisely chose not to press the matter. "Yes, it seems they are chasing mysteries and legends while these people starve." For the first time, scorn tainted the color of his tone. Catching this, he breathed deeply, then apologized. "Excuse me…I just…."

"What do you mean?" Alistair inquired, stepping closer to Ser Bryant and Charlotte. For a moment, Charlotte was caught by his proximity; he was handsome, to be sure, and smelled vaguely of soap and something musky. In the gentle light of the Chantry's votive candles, his tan skin glowed under his crop of golden hair, while his eyes looked warmer than ever, full of concern. Charlotte flushed and shook herself, _Stop it, you ninny, what are you doing?_

Ser Bryant proffered a respectful nod of his head to Alistair, "Apparently, the Arl is very ill. His knights are seeking the Urn of Andraste; he must be sick indeed for them to search for myths and miracles." Alistair's face crinkled with worry; he and Charlotte quickly shared a silent exchange. "Thank you, Ser Bryant," Charlotte spoke softly so as not to disturb those in prayer. "If there is anything we can do while we are here…"

"You are most generous, my lady. Unfortunately, there is little any of us can do except escape the force of Darkspawn moving north." Ser Bryant seemed to age in the dim candlelight as he imagined the potential fates of all his charges. "The best you can do while you are here is to spend some coin in the tavern and move on. Unless, of course, you can magically produce food, medicine, and water?" Briefly, his eyes flickered over Morrigan, who stiffened in silent reproach.

"I wish we could," Charlotte apologized regretfully. There was no way Charlotte would risk her comrade that way, especially when she was already in danger just keeping her and Alistair's company. If she were to reveal herself as an apostate, chaos would surely claim her. Charlotte saluted the Templar, who was obviously a good man left with an unenviable task most likely doomed to failure, but one he was still willing to try and accomplish for the sake of others. He, in turn, crossed his arms over his chest and bowed to her, before excusing himself to see the Reverend Mother.

"Charlotte, we need to find those knights." Alistair whispered urgently, moving close so others wouldn't hear. _Stop doing that_, she thought dizzily, her senses flooded with that musky scent.

Charlotte mentally shook herself, "Yes, would you know them? By looks, I mean." Alistair shrugged. "It's possible."

"Very well, then please see what you can do. I, on the other hand, am going to buy more supplies at the tavern. Morrigan," the marsh witch was carefully impassive, but Charlotte could feel the stress radiating off her in waves. A Templar had been watching her with suspicion since they entered the chapel, and now he drew closer, eyes glittering in the slit of his helmet.

Charlotte could hardly blame her; Morrigan was clearly not _normal_, even without the telling presence of her stave, which they had wisely chosen to hide outside the Chantry in a tree where no one would disturb it. The refugees might choose to ignore the telltale signs of her apostacy, but even in these desperate times, they had felt certain the Templars would not.

"I think it is best if you… scout a little." Charlotte studied the aurulent eyes for signs of understanding. In response, they lit up with excitement.

"Very well," Morrigan turned away and gracefully exited, head held high in spite of her nerves. For that, Charlotte couldn't help but respect the young woman.

"What do you mean, scouting?" Alistair asked curiously. Charlotte stifled a smile.

"I mean, my dear Templar, that she is going to take a little breather and transform into a bird."

He was agog, "What?!"

Full lips curved with amusement, "Yes, I caught her one morning coming back from an evening flight. Morrigan can turn into a hawk." Charlotte frowned disapprovingly at the Templar who had been lurking near Morrigan. He had stopped between Morrigan's exit and Charlotte's whispered conversation, evidently torn about whom to question. Seeing her scrutiny, he grew nervous and hurried away. Alistair had to admire her; this was not a woman to mess with.

Apart from the disturbing news about their companion, Alistair felt relieved. Charlotte was keeping him sane, helping him focus when everything felt like it was falling apart, watching over him and Morrigan like a mother Mabari. When he heard the words, "The Arl is very ill," Alistair felt like the bottom of his world dropped out. Her calm orders helped him hold on to some vestige of hope that something useful could be done, and he couldn't find big enough words to express his gratitude.

In spite of the darkness of their circumstances, he felt an irrepressible urge to show her this and, in a moment of courage, he did so by snatching her hand and kissing it. Charlotte gaped at him, then smiled shyly, her cheeks glowing a most fetching shade of pink.

"What was _that _for?" She asked him, shifting bashfully on her feet.

"For being wonderful," he told her promptly, only causing her face to become more radiant with color.

"Well… thank you. I am going to the tavern. Please find one of the Arl's knights quickly so you can meet me there. I want to leave Lothering as soon as possible." Shadows crossed her face as Charlotte grew troubled again over the conditions which would soon be spreading to the rest of Ferelden.

"I will be there as soon as I can," Alistair promised. When he realized he still held her tiny hand in his, Alistair released it, hoping he hadn't blushed with embarrassment.

* * *

"_Oui_, Votre Majesté." The seneschal retreated, bent into a deep bow that almost caused his _bourrelet _to sweep the floor. Empress Celene I shifted impatiently in her seat, smoothing her skirts in an unconscious gesture. This was evidence of her disturbance, as the Orlesian Queen did very little without design.

The news of King Cailan's death had been most upsetting, most upsetting indeed. Had he been sensible enough to follow her warnings and remain out of battle, he would still live and her grasp on Ferelden would be that much closer. Now, with her _collaborateur secret _lost to the side of the Maker, Celene was left to hide in the shadows with bated breath, sending spies to scatter over all of Ferelden for compromising evidence of her and Cailan's scheme.

The first matter which perturbed the Empress was that of the coffers in Denerim. Cailan had been so delighted at her suggestion that she sell him grain for (what she claimed to be) half the price, in anticipation of Blighted lands following the successful end of the Darkspawn incursion. She had been very careful when she wrote _that _letter, making sure to insert just the right amount of womanly concern, to inveigle him with her generosity and consideration for his people. What he didn't know was that, when they would be married, he would have been entitled to the grain as part of her dowry. Instead, the foolish little barbarian had thought them both very clever to so ingratiate Celene to his subjects with this demonstration of her desire to ensure their comfort and well-being. Considering how simple it had been to steal that money from him, Celene worried over just how careful Cailan had been in covering their tracks on his end.

It irked her because she realized now that she most likely would have been able to marry Cailan without nearly bankrupting him. It had been her intention to ensure that his conviction would not falter once faced with the actual deed of bringing their kingdoms together, that he would _need _her and therefore be trapped either way. Celene very much preferred to avoid the force her predecessors had so foolishly abused. Obviously, Ferelden was not a country that took to such an approach peacefully. Now, her key had broken in the lock, and she was left to hesitate outside lest she alert the owners of the home she was attempting to rob.

Her chancellor, Guillaume Barre, was on his way to consult on this matter. Celene had been looking for him all morning, only to be told by the seneschal that he was "indisposed" in another meeting. Furious, Celene wished to pace the room, but restrained herself, long-practiced at hiding her anxiety from others.

There was a gentle knock at the door; "_Entrer_!" Celene commanded, folding her fan onto her lap and settling into her ease.

Chancellor Barre stepped in and bowed before closing the door behind him. He was a graying older man who had been much loved by Celene's dear guardian, Lady Mantillon. When the Dowager had helped Celene take the throne, the first piece of advice she had offered had been to allow Barre to guide her Crown.

"Votre Majesté, we have much to discuss." Barre came forward to kiss her royal hand; after some careful scrutiny of his expression, the Empress allowed it, having decided he displayed adequate humility. When he bowed once more, Celene indicated a nearby seat. "_T'asseoir._"

Barre thanked her and sat, his face set in the lines of business. "Votre Majesté, I have just spoken with one of our informants, who returned from Denerim this morning. He has indicated that Teyrn Loghain is attempting to usurp the throne."

This was most unexpected, "_Vraiment?_ And what is the result?"

Guillaume shrugged noncommittally, "Possibly civil war, but that is not yet decided. However, it seems that tensions are rising as he is in denial of the growing Darkspawn incursion. Apparently, _Siegneur _Loghain is focused entirely upon Orlais and has made no efforts since Ostagar to address the Darkspawn's increasing threat."

Celene tapped one delicate finger on her chin; she had shed her mask in this private receiving chamber, wishing to cast off all impediments to her concentration. "_C'est intéressant_, and what of the coffers?"

"According to this informant as well as others, Loghain suspects that the money went to relations with Orlais, but has no proof. All efforts to discover a connection have been unsuccessful, although he supposedly knows of revealing records the King kept at Ostagar."

Celene was furious, "_Stupide bâtard_, I knew he would do something like that." She fanned herself irritably to compensate for the sudden rush of heat she felt in her neck and face. It simply did not do for a pale-complexion to be flushed when under pressure.

Leaning solicitously forward, the Chancellor offered a method for recoupment. "If I may, I think I have found a solution?"

After a few moments of silent fuming, the Empress gave him haughty leave with the flick of one hand.

Barre leaned back, nodding gratefully. "_Merci_, I believe we should hire that woman again. See what magic she can work on these dog-smelling backwaters to retrieve the _document_ which the King left to the Darkspawn?"

Celene considered it. The woman was a professional, she would leave no trace. And if anyone could intercept treasonous correspondence in lands infested with Darkspawn, it was she. Suddenly, Celene had an idea.

"_Merveilleux_," she murmured, smiling like a cat that'd got the cream.

"_Pardon?" _Guillaume inquired, his expression one of polite puzzlement.

The queen snapped her fan closed, no longer flush with anger. Her skin was once again cool and beautifully pale underneath her magnificently arranged champagne hair. The light shining through the windows threw her into glorious relief, sparkling off the jewels encrusted on her throat and in her gown, causing the silk to have a silver sheen that moved as she shifted into satisfied repose.

"We will hire the woman again," she agreed, full lips curving upward. "And then, we will await the destruction of Ferelden by the _progéntiure de noir_ and, when they are broken and desperate, I will send them my _chevaliers _and the entire force of Orlesian Grey Wardens."

Her exquisite green eyes were dazzling in the light shining through the windows; Barre swallowed convulsively, faced with so much menace in one person. Although she smiled as brilliantly as the sun, her eyes were breathtakingly cold and as empty as the black sky behind the moon.

"We will have them then, Guillaume. And then we will have their country."

* * *

_T'asseoir: "you sit" or "be seated"_

_Merveilleux: wonderful or marvelous_

_Progeniture de Noir: Darkspawn (probably not how they would say it, but my French is rusty.)_

_Vraiment: Truly_


	16. The Good, the Bad, and the Furry

_Just for some context: Rivain, as most of you know, is based on Spain. In Spain during the middle ages, desserts were often made with oranges and/or figs. Plus, the Spanish had a real sweet tooth, and it was one of the biggest things they brought to the Americas (oranges! citrus!) Thank you to **Kyla Baines **and_ **_momongiri _**for_ their lovely encouragement, I'm sorry my thanks are belated - and thank you so much to everyone for reading. Please continue to review!_

_Molti Bacci,_

_Enid._

* * *

The tavern, Dane's Refuge, seemed unable to live up to its name as heaving crowds of the displaced attempted to drain it of room and board.

"Off with you!" The innkeeper, disheveled and slightly panicked, was shoving a small group of people away from the door. Among them, a few men pressed forward, their backs hunching with menace.

"That'll be quite enough," Charlotte's voice carried over the snarls and heckles, which instantly died away at the sight of her. Smoothly, Charlotte withdrew one of her long daggers, twirling it with characteristic finesse between her fingers. "Why don't you come back later, like the gentleman says?" She swallowed her fear and quietly entreated the Maker that no one noticed how nervous their angry glares truly made her. Beside her, Mastodon flattened his ears, the sweet expression he'd spared for a child a few moments ago replaced with one of warning as his lips curled back ever so slightly to show his teeth.

"Yeah!" The brief moment of fortitude escaped the innkeeper as those who had been glaring at Charlotte transferred their displeasure back to him. However, after scanning her armor and the powerful hound at her side, the grumbling crowd moved on, their expressions clearly stating that this was not the end.

When they had gained a safe distance, Charlotte spun the dagger back and slid it into her scabbard, the pleasing slice of metal binding with leather complementing her agile movements. "Are you alright?" She inquired, moving a little closer.

"Yes, and you have my thanks, but you will find no sanctuary here. We are full up." He turned to go.

"Now just a moment," Charlotte smiled as she grabbed the man's shoulder, but it did not touch her eyes and the little man quaked under her sparkling gaze. Andraste's knickers – how had she moved so quickly?!

"While I am happy to provide a service, I do not provide it for free. Have you any food or wine?" She produced a single silver out of thin air, and the man's beady eyes snapped to it like a sailor responding to a siren's call. Nervously, he licked his lips, glancing back and forth between her stiff expression, Mastodon, and the coin in her hand.

After a moment's deliberation, he accepted the money with avaricious glee, snatching it quickly like a Magpie. "Of course, my lady. Follow me – oh, the hound stays outside." He reprimanded her stiffly, his lip curling a little under his pointed nose as he shrank back against the tavern door, equally protective of his establishment and his person as he awaited her reaction.

Smiling that same cold grin, Charlotte shook her head. "I'm afraid not, my friend, but here." Charlotte dropped another silver into his hand. "That one is for your accommodation." He glanced worriedly at her – where was all this money coming from? Was she a witch? – but finally, he shrugged it off and allowed her to enter, shutting the door quickly behind Mastodon's wagging tail.

The tavern was cool and dark; it smelled of ale and the sour stench of sweat as the many people staying there were pressed into close quarters. A minstrel bravely attempted to jolly the crowd with a song from the gallery, where a companion accompanied him on her lute. Charlotte took it all in: the crackling fire, the huddled people trying to stay warm, the silent glares of grief and loss that swept over Charlotte as these people questioned how their fortunes had fared worse than her own.

Charlotte felt nothing but sympathy – sympathy and dread, as she knew these faces would not be the last to hold such expressions. Mastodon panted beside her, also studying the crowd, and he whined a little at Charlotte with distress to see so many others in suffering.

Charlotte felt his pain, but a grumbling tummy was her current priority, even if all she could eat was oat porridge. The bar, despite the squeezed throng, was nicely kept and gleaming under the soft glow of the tavern's lanterns. Its shiny surface winked beckoningly at Charlotte and she was just about to approach the barkeep for some ale when a beefy figure barred her way.

"I _know _you," the man was drunk and he hiccupped, squinting in the dim light to get a better look at Charlotte's face.

"Do you now?" Charlotte tried to step around him, keeping a cautious distance. The man slapped his hand down on the table next to her, causing the empty jugs there to rattle ominously. Charlotte gasped and went still.

"I never forget a face, I don't, especially one like yours…" He leered closer, stinking of sweat and ale, and Charlotte leaned back, disgusted and a little afraid.

Before Mastodon could even growl, another two men approached. "Eh, what have we here?"

They were soliders, Charlotte realized, from Maric's Shield. Apart from their upsetting manner due to drink, Charlotte wondered how they could have deserted Loghain so easily and without consequence.

As if he read her mind, her first assailant answered. "We were sent for you. Teyrn Loghain knew – he knew you traitorous Grey Wardens wouldn't just give up!"

His shouted proclamation had caused the minstrels to go silent, their music cutting off abruptly from above. All eyes were on Charlotte and her unwanted company. Inwardly cursing, Charlotte attempted a pleasant smile, heart racing in her chest as she placed a restraining hand on Mastodon's collar.

"I'm sorry, my dear man, but I believe you have me mistaken for someone else." Charlotte tried to move past a second time, only to be violently shoved backward, two of Loghain's men advancing angrily towards her. Protectively, Mastodon barked, giving them momentary pause.

Charlotte emitted an unladylike expletive, changing quickly to a fighting stance, only to be surprised from a lilting voice tutting behind her.

"Now, now, is that any way to treat a lady?" Morrigan moved out of the shadows, her yellow eyes glistening with malice.

She was carrying her stave; Charlotte sighed a little in relief, relaxing her posture. "Thank the Maker, do you think you could freeze one of them for me? I'm tired and I need to eat." Upon hearing this request, all three soldiers stopped in their tracks, looking horrified at Morrigan, who purred with gratification in response.

"Oh, I think I could oblige you. Make yourself useful, Mongrel, and bite their ankles." Morrigan leaned back, holding up her stave as she readied herself to cast.

"Wait!" A clear, appealing voice cut through the crackling of magic. People had been preparing to scatter, but now they paused as a Chantry Sister parted the crowds to reach Charlotte and the soldiers.

"Perfect," Morrigan griped sourly. "We are to be corrected by the self-righteous." She lowered her hands, waving them dismissively before crossing her arms with frustration.

"Please, wait." The Sister was slight and pretty, with a bob of bright red hair that looked windblown and brilliant, cornflower-blue eyes. "Now, gentlemen, surely we can end this without any trouble? They are, no doubt, merely poor souls seeking refuge." Her voice cooed persuasively, full lips curving as a twinkle entered her eyes. Sensing her gaze, the Sister winked surreptitiously at Charlotte, who raised her eyebrows at Morrigan; _this _was a Chantry Sister?

"They are more than that!" The first soldier insisted. "Now stay out of our way, Sister – if you protect these traitors, you'll get the same as them!"

"Oh?" Morrigan trilled in amusement. "And what exactly would that be? Your hides stretched over a drum?" Morrigan was rewarded with a few nervous titters from the patrons.

Goaded, the second soldier stepped forward. "I was at Ostagar! I was with the Teyrn when he saved our forces, and the Grey Wardens murdered the King!" This earned him a collective gasp from the crowd, who all looked at Charlotte with renewed horror and fear.

Morrigan made a noise of impatience, "Are you really so easily swayed? Think for yourselves!" Charlotte scanned the huddle of faces and saw skepticism rush over them like a wave.

_Shut it, Morrigan. _Charlotte appreciated her efforts, but a crowd of skittish refugees were unlikely to take advice from an obviously violent maleficarum. It would be up to her to gain their curiosity and – ideally – their favor. "Is that so? It was very convenient wasn't it, then, that Teyrn Loghain chose to _quit _the field when he did?" Charlotte selected her words with care, staring into the infuriated eyes of the soldiers and allowing the masses to come to their own conclusion.

Her words had the desired effect; her opponents could not have been more outraged as more uncertainty shifted among the men and women around them, eliciting a few puzzled whispers. "How dare you! YOU are the traitor!" The first, obviously a commander of sorts, jerked his head at his comrades after taking in her work with dark eyes. He bared his teeth and burned Charlotte with a murderous glare, "Take her into custody!"

The scuffle was so brief, most would swear later they almost didn't see it happen. Three seasoned men against a mage, hound, and trained warrior would have been more of a show, but when it was all over, Charlotte realized a fourth party member had helped them skip directly to the credits.

"You can fight?" Charlotte was flabbergasted as she observed the two blades in the Sister's hands, her posture strong and her footing well-placed. _She's received extensive training_, Charlotte thought and the mystery of the fast-talking Chantry Sister grew more compelling.

"Please, don't kill me!" One of Loghain's men – the commander - had survived with minor injuries, clutching his wounded leg where Mastodon had taken him down.

"Good," the Sister interjected. "He has learned his lesson, no? We can all stop fighting now." Charlotte heard the faint traces of an Orlesian accent in her words.

"Yes, yes I have. I beg you!" The man winced, blood seeping through his white-knuckled fingers.

Had they been away from prying eyes, Charlotte may have made a different decision – but with so much riding on collective support from the Ferelden people for their cause, Charlotte sheathed her weapons, indicating that Morrigan should do the same.

She sighed, "Oh, very well." Morrigan placed her stave on her back and crossed her arms again, raising her best imperious eyebrow to the watching crowd.

"Can you heal him?" Charlotte inquired, bending down to study the injury on his leg; the soldier shrank away. Beside her, Mastodon was proud that he had been so helpful to catch the bad, shouting pseudo-alpha for his mistress, and he panted happily as he sat down and puffed out his chest.

"Of all the…. Surely you are joking?" Morrigan broke her composure, with signature scowl slipping back into place. This time, it was Charlotte's turn to sigh. "_Please_, Morrigan." She tilted her head ever so slightly at their audience; Morrigan chuffed disapprovingly, but did as she was bid, and cast a healing spell with one careless hand.

Some of the flesh knitted itself back together; the commander exhaled in relief. Slowly, Charlotte and the Sister helped the man to his feet, blood dripping onto the floorboards. The innkeeper, having determined that pointy bits were safely hidden from possibly injuring his person, was now fussing over the other two dead soldiers, wringing his hands and casting alternatively nervous and angry looks Charlotte's way. He muttered something that sounded vaguely like, "knew" and "trouble."

"Who will help me cast out the bodies of men who start war where trouble and strife already live?" Charlotte called out to the men and women around her, eyes calm and sure as she searched their faces for some sign of belief or conviction.

"I will," to everyone's amazement, the barkeep came around his station and went to help Morrigan lift one of the bodies from the floor. Hesitantly, others joined them, until the men had been placed in a ditch behind the tavern, from where the barkeep promised they would be moved at a later time when a pyre could be constructed to burn their bodies.

"You were right to deal with them, miss," he told her somberly, eyes sincere over his black beard. "They'd been causing a ruckus all day and it wasn't right to attack you in such close quarters, with women and children nearby."

"I quite agree," she patted him reassuringly on the shoulder.

"Are you really a Grey Warden?" a small woman pushed forward, her little boy clutching one hand, both of them wearing masks of wide-eyed curiosity.

"No, my lady," Charlotte answered gently. "I am a displaced soldier from the King's army. Those men were mistaken, shaken as they were by grief and drink."

The people listening seemed not to believe this, but having seen the young woman's power, they did not wish to engage more trouble than they already had. Quickly, her audience dispersed and went about their business.

"Very well, I need to purchase some food and drink for my travels. I will ensure this man to treatment and safety, then I would very much like to see your wares." The barkeep nodded and went back inside, sparing the commander next to her one last worried glance. Charlotte waited until he disappeared, feeling overwhelmingly tired.

As soon as they were alone, a terrible coldness stole over Charlotte; it took all her self-control not to grip the man by his throat for what he had nearly cost her. Instead, she lowered herself so that she may face him, giving him that same strange smile she had bestowed upon the innkeeper earlier. Morrigan saw this and mused at the change in their benevolent leader… Twas an interesting development, to say the least. To show her approval and support, the marsh witch came to the commander's side, gripping the man by his collar and nodding to Charlotte to let her know he was secured. In response, the wounded soldier's eyes rolled wildly between the witch and fierce Grey Warden, watching for signs that his fate might soon turn for the worse.

Charlotte leaned close to his face, while reaching behind her back. She began withdrawing something from her pack. The man tensed in terrified anticipation; when she produced a small length of parchment and a coal pencil, he started, then stared apprehensively, eyes still flitting occasionally to her hands and face for any hidden threats. Charlotte placed graphite to parchment, her grim smile widening; "Now, before I let you go…."

* * *

The tea on the tray wafted fragrant steam as the little elven handmaid set a crisp pace down the hall towards the royal apartments; her quick steps were muffled by the rug laid over the stone floor, the finest of Dragon's Peak limestone, carved out of the very mountains. Her urgency was betrayed only by the gentle tinkle of ceramics and silver. Guardsmen regarded her warily at every step, then relaxed minutely as they recognized who it was. No acknowledgement was offered, however, to not only an elf, but an Orlesian elf. The pairing between her and the Queen was one most in the castle did not even pretend to understand.

A careful balancing act was executed with practiced ease as the woman freed one hand to knock gently upon the door of the private receiving chamber. When entrance was granted, she slid in back-first initially, then swung lithely forward before the Queen could notice, so that it appeared as if the Queen's personal servant had simply floated into the room through the previously closed door.

Erlina crossed the comfortable chamber to where the Queen and her guest were sitting; with a subtle curtsy, she made quick, graceful work of laying the out the china and silver, taking special care with the large tea pot the Queen often drank from on her own throughout the day. Between each place setting, she put the customary edibles for a Low Tea: sandwiches, scones with clotted cream, and a selection of sweets. The sweets had been selected with much consideration by the Queen herself, in anticipation of this much awaited guest and the inevitable work she would do to please him.

"That is fine, Erlina. Thank you. Now please leave us."

Erlina curtsied to the Queen, casting one nervous glance at the man sitting opposite her before quietly exiting the room into the Queen's bedchamber where she would begin work on mending the Queen's clothes.

Erlina did not like to leave the Queen with that… man. Although she knew the Queen possessed unparalleled competence in her role and was as sharp as a tack, she loathed the idea of her being exposed to such unscrupulous rabble. It was only the Queen's intense need that had pushed Erlina to seek out some of her old contacts and bring them to the attention of the Crown. Through a series of veiled messages in the form of various found objects throughout Denerim, the spies Erlina sought were gradually brought to the castle, carefully slipped in by Erlina during shift changes among the guard and times when those who would ask questions were occupied elsewhere and nary the wiser.

That the Queen had required two place settings for her tea when the Chamberlain was not expecting guests had created some kerfuffle, especially when it happened more than once. When it was made plain, however, that the Queen required privacy, a resentful silence – but silence nonetheless – had been guaranteed.

Erlina sat on a stool by the window upholstered in worn red velvet. She nervously picked up her sewing, ears pricked for the slightest hint of trouble. Her mind wandered back to when she was first hired to come and spy on the Queen. Empress Celeste I had secured Erlina's services to act as an informant and, eventually, as an assassin. When Queen Anora made it clear that she knew of the woman's role as a Bard, Erlina had been certain she would be sentenced to death.

It had been a temperate spring day in Bloomingtide. Erlina had been serving the Anora's tea as usual, when the polished tones of the Queen roused her attention.

"You were sent for me, weren't you?" Erlina froze over her work, uncharacteristically shocked into discomposure.

Slowly, she had turned to the woman who had treated her so finely over the last three months. Erlina had, in secret, begun to grow fond of the Queen. She was fashionable and intelligent; she treated Erlina with respect, submitting to her expertise in dress and hair styling. She had even taken to confiding in her from time to time, coaxing out small bits of information about Erlina, which the elven bard had believed impossible for anyone to do.

Now, she was faced with the mercy of the Maker, revealed for what she was to a woman that she no longer wanted to kill. When Erlina bore her confession with mute dignity, she waited for the guardsmen to descend, hoping that her lack of resistance would grant her some measure of kindness in her sentence.

"Erlina, please look at me." Shocked again, the handmaid raised her eyes automatically.

To her disbelief, the Queen was actually smiling. "I appreciate your candor. You are the woman I have come to know in these last few months, after all."

That was when Erlina's tears began to fall; in small rivulets, they cascaded down her pretty face as she looked into the heart of this great woman.

"Do you think we could start again? If I may speak plainly, I do not care for what you had to do in your own country, but here you are under my protection and I think it would be best if that continued. And," she leaned conspiratorially forward, eyes twinkling into the wide gaze of awe she was receiving from Erlina. "I really rather like what you are able to do with my hair."

Erlina almost laughed, but her training wouldn't let her; instead, the Queen was rewarded with a watery smile and the undying loyalty of a valuable connection to the dark and murky underworld where shadows lived.

Now, Erlina regretted that connection bitterly, worried for her Queen. As her fingers twitched without progress over the fabric in her hands, a conversation of grave import began quietly on the other side of the door.

Queen Anora was not a woman to be trifled with. She had made this clear as long as she had been old enough to understand there were those who would impede her, simply because they felt she wasn't good enough. Anora had been forced to learn nearly from birth that many nobles would sooner see her on the bottom of their boot than in the throne without a drop of noble blood in her veins. Those imbecilic enough to challenge her over the years had received a lesson of their own: the Queen may not be of noble blood, but what she lacked in breeding she made up in intelligence and a political acumen that rivaled her father's.

Loghain too, was a man willing to sacrifice much without flinching at the costs in the name of his duty. For Anora, this duty was limited to one simple goal: to rule Ferelden. Part of her acknowledged that she genuinely took pleasure in the well-being of her subjects, particularly as she had grown more experienced ruling alongside - and eventually instead of - Cailan. It had been apparent from childhood that Cailan was half a King: all the royal charm and no structure or intention, beyond his limited definitions of "glory." Anora tried not to scoff into her tea; glory had gotten Cailan killed and it was most unfortunate, although probably better for both of them. If Anora had seen him live and attempt to take the throne from her, she would have been forced to most unbecoming political behavior.

Now, she did what she must to pick up the pieces of Cailan's abominable failure. This man might be riffraff, but he was also a trained spy and one that accepted large sums of gold without question. Although the coffers had been nearly stripped of funds – an absence tainted with Cailan's betrayal – Anora had her own money, covertly set aside over the last five years in anticipation of a need to protect her throne. It was not an enormous sum, but enough to accomplish what she needed. Anora had never really trusted Cailan, particularly when she found out he had taken mistresses. The act itself had not bothered her – it had certainly freed some of her time to focus more on growing her presence as the ruler of Ferelden – but she had known then that he would eventually do something to betray her. She had simply not realized he had the imagination to concoct something of Orlesian proportion.

With an exactness that reminded Anora faintly of her own mother, the Queen set her teacup in its saucer with only the faintly, chalky sound of china against china. Gracefully avoiding even the slightest rattle, Anora placed her tea back on the low table and sat firmly upright, hands folded in her slim lap as she looked into the eyes of the man in front of her.

"You understand the assignment, then?" Her voice was clipped, but still soft and eloquent, even in the midst of such sordid business.

Ryker – he had shared no last name, nor personal history to place him – nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty." His voice was rough around the edges, obviously smoothed from much practice and dedication into a tone that could befit a man of most positions. Anora delicately wiped her mouth with her linen napkin and folded it back onto the side of her lap, leaning over to offer Ryker a sandwich. He didn't so much as flinch, eyes hooded like that of a bored lizard as he accepted a cucumber sandwich without looking at the plate. Anora swept surreptitious eyes over his rigid form; the man was as tense as a viper, his body betraying the vigilance belayed by his impassive expression.

"Very good; you will be hired as the Master of both my father's and Howe's wardrobes. I will fire the man currently in that position. Once ensconced in your new position, you will bring me any correspondence pertaining to the Alienage. Is that clear?" Ryker nodded, expressionless as he did not eat his sandwich.

Anora smiled beatifically; this man could do a great deal of damage and he was either going to be on her side, or theirs. To that end, she decided to secure some leverage. "I am most glad to hear it. Now that the business is over, let us take our ease. Can I offer you some sweets?" She leaned solicitously forward, not to offer her womanly charms, but to appear earnest as she invited him to take his pick of various sweets on the plate, a selection handpicked to represent many different tastes from all over Thedas.

Ryker scanned the plate with hooded disinterest; after some consideration, he took one sweet: minced figs baked with sugar in a pastry cup. Inwardly, Queen Anora smiled. As she set the plate down, she waited for him to bite into it; once he was completely absorbed in its flavor, she played her winning card with lilting amusement:

"Tell me, Ryker, when was the last time you visited your sister in Rivain?" And watched with delighted composure as Ryker's tan complexion flushed in consernation.

* * *

Lothering had worked out quite well, actually. Despite Charlotte's initial trepidation, they had managed to replenish their supplies and gained two new members to their order – or at least two new curiosities who didn't seem to have anywhere else to go.

Alistair had made decent progress when he tracked down Ser Donall, one of Eamon's younger knights who had joined his retinue shortly before Alistair was sent to the Chantry. Ser Donall had been very surprised to see him, having heard about the debacle suffered by the Grey Wardens. "Alistair? By the Maker! You're alive!" After some enthusiastic hand-pumping and perfunctory reassurances of Alistair's health, the junior Grey Warden had enquired after the wellness of someone much more important.

"Is it true that Arl Eamon is ill?" His wide forehead crinkled with worry over anxious eyes.

Ser Donall became grave, "I am afraid so. Lady Isolde has sent us out to pursue that last of her hopes: the Sacred Urn of Andraste's ashes." Ser Donall shook his head at such madness.

"Have you… found anything?"

Ser Donall shrugged, attempting to hide the sense of defeat he was clearly battling. "Only stories and mysterious leads that reference mountains, caves, a holy pilgrimage taken long ago to hide the ashes. But nothing that has actually led me to believe that they exist, or that they are placed anywhere I could find them."

After some gentle prodding, Ser Donall confessed that many of the Arl's knights had given up hope, but not yet returned to the castle in Redcliffe, fearful of the Arl's death and Lady Isolde's hysterical castigation. Ser Donall had been planning to return when he discovered his partner Ser Henric had been killed outside of Lothering. It was unclear whether this had come at the hands of darkspawn or bandits, and so Ser Donall had remained to investigate before continuing on to Redcliffe.

"If it _was _the bandits," Alistair told him with a measure of satisfaction, "Then you don't need to worry about them now. My comrade and I killed them." Alistair deliberately did not include Morrigan among that number. She was no comrade of his.

Ser Donall gaped, "Truly?"

A little proud, Alistair nodded. "Yes; if your friend was indeed murdered at their hands, then take peace in the knowledge they are dead."

Ser Donall granted the young man a short bow and salute, "Then you have my gratitude. I should return to Redcliffe, now that matter is settled. Ser Henric would want me to fulfill my duties. May the Maker watch over you, Alistair."

Before he departed, the knight added one more piece of information in an effort to repay the debt he felt he owed for the dispatch of Ser Henric's murderers:

"Alistair, if you are genuinely interested, I would recommend you check the writings of a Chantry brother named Genitivi. He is possesses an…. insistent fervor, that the Ashes exist. If there is anyone who can help you in your quest, it would be him."

"Thank you Ser Donall, may the Maker smile over your path." And then the knight was gone.

Now, Alistair hurriedly made his way to the tavern to share his findings with Charlotte. He navigated the crowds easily as they made way for someone who carried the warning weight of weapons and armor. Alistair tried to ignore the pangs he felt at their tormented faces, his tawny eyes flicking quickly from one thing to another in order not to linger on any one travesty for too long.

Alistair was passing the gardens of the Chantry, squeezed to one side by the jostling throng. Most plants in the village had already begun to yellow; the beginnings of the Taint. Once the Darkspawn reached Lothering, all would blacken and die, the land erupting in noxious boils that would bleed life from the land. Alistair attempted to apply the same inattention to the plants withering in the garden, but a flash of color caught his eye. He glanced up and was astonished.

Among the wilted fox gloves, crocuses, rosemary, and sage, a single rosebush grew from gnarled, grey roots. The leaves, however, were the rich green of an emerald and, like cupped hands, they surrounded a single, radiant, red flower.

This part of the gardens was open to the public; a small cooperative for a small village, where food, flowers, and herbs could be grown for medicinal and housekeeping purposes. It had obviously fallen into disrepair among all the hysteria, and yet this rose burned brightly like the sun in Alistair's eye. With no one to deter him, he approached it almost reverently, and touched the soft petals with a few extended fingers.

Something about the flower called to Alistair; it was a precious symbol, of what exactly he did not know, but he knew he could not leave it here to die, tread under Darkspawn feet. Swiftly, he withdrew a small penknife and cut the stem well below the flower's head, giving it room to breathe before it began to dry. He folded it into one of his clean handkerchiefs and placed in his pack, taking care to secure it where it wouldn't be crushed.

That done, Alistair slid away before anyone could notice what he had done. He felt a little guilty, but took heart in the knowledge it would have died of Blight sickness anyway, and at least now the importance of it could be preserved. The crowd thinned out as he reached the fenced-in yard of the tavern; Alistair began to scan for Charlotte or Mastodon (one would inevitably lead to the other). When he found her, Alistair was rather surprised to find Charlotte being verbally accosted – there was really no other way of describing it – by an eager Chantry Sister, who looked flushed with excitement as she told the young woman some story about a vision she'd received from the Maker.

Initially, this had stopped Alistair, making him wonder if he had misheard. Shaking his head a little to clear his ears, he listened more carefully.

"…I know it sounds crazy, but it's true! I had a vision – look at these people, at their despair. And this darkness, this chaos will only spread. What you do, what you are _meant _to do is the Maker's work. Let me help!" Her posture was imploring.

"Excuse me? What is going on?" Alistair leaned solicitously forward, smiling brilliantly at Charlotte's expression of relief when she caught sight of him.

The Sister turned to face him, her pixie face pretty under a bob of bright hair. "Oh, excuse my manners! Let me introduce myself, I am Leliana, one of the lay sisters from the Chantry here in Lothering. Or I was." She grinned wickedly, obviously certain Charlotte would accept her.

"I am Alistair, well met. And what, dear lady, gave you the impression we are doing the Maker's work?" Alistair raised his eyebrows in a telling expression that disavowed skepticism but only made him appear even more disbelieving.

She widened startling blue eyes in what Alistair suspected was either a very good approximation of innocence or the real thing. "You are Grey Wardens. You will be battling the Darkspawn, yes? I know after what happened, you will need all the help you can get."

Alistair looked inquiringly at Charlotte, before opening his mouth to deny the truth.

"Don't bother," Charlotte cut across him, seeming a little amused. "Sister Leliana knows," sighing with chagrin, she added, "In fact, she just helped me dispatch some of Loghain's soldiers. Apparently, he is a rather _nervous _monarch."

Alistair went white, "What?! Are you alright? Are you hurt?" He made to move towards her, but she held up both hands.

"I'm fine, thanks to her and Morrigan. Well, and Mastodon, of course. I'll tell you all about it later." She gave him a significant look behind the pleasantly smiling Leliana.

"Very well," inwardly, Alistair twitched to be near her, wanting reassurance that she was truly safe. It horrified him to think she could have been hurt or…_killed _simply because he hadn't been there to help defend her.

"So, Sister Leliana, is it? You want to join our Order?" Alistair asked politely, clearly unconvinced. Charlotte seemed to find something amusing and leaned back against a post by the tavern, crossing her arms and waiting.

She beamed, "Oh yes."

"May I ask why?"

"The Maker told me to."

For a moment, Alistair was sure he could have heard a pin drop in the entire village.

"You… I beg your pardon?"

At this moment, Morrigan swanned into view. "I see you have met our pestilential faith-bringer. Woman, have you no sense at all? Begone!" Morrigan flicked an irritable hand at Leliana, whose face went slightly cold and blank in answer.

Alistair turned to Charlotte; she was attempting to still her shaking shoulders. "More crazy? I thought we were all full-up."

Charlotte, having spent some of her humor, wiped a tear from one eye and chose this moment to intervene. "With all due respect, Sister Leliana, this is not a journey for someone from the cloister. It might be best if you remain here, offer your services to those fleeing the Darkspawn." Alistair nodded, trying to drip sensible concern. But Leliana was having none of it.

"Please, just call me Leliana. No, I have training you can use. Let me assist you." She focused on Charlotte, clearly identifying her as the leader. Tentatively, Mastodon sniffed the potential pack member. Finding nothing disagreeable, he barked his approval and bestowed Leliana with a welcoming wag of his tail.

Charlotte did a search of her own, studying the woman's face for something only she could name. When she found it there, she nodded. "Very well, you may join us. It will be hard and probably unrewarding, mind you, and your life will be threatened every day."

Leliana shrugged, her eyes flashing mischievously. "So back to normal, then." She laughed at Charlotte's questioning expression.

Quietly, Alistair took Charlotte aside. "Are you _sure _this is a good idea? I mean really, this time." Charlotte patted his hand, watching Leliana stroke Mastodon behind one ear. "She fought very well, Alistair. You didn't see her, but if not for her it would have been a difficult fight."

Alistair shuddered, overcome again with a surge of guilt. "I should have been there," his hand closed over hers reflexively.

"No, you did exactly what you were supposed to do – we weren't to know those minions of Loghain were waiting for us. And it turned out fine – look! A new recruit!" She smiled winningly, sweeping her arms wide as if to present a grand prize.

Alistair chuckled, shaking his head. "Alright, whatever you say. I supposed it's always better to have more help." He looked briefly at Leliana and Morrigan, who were ignoring each other in a haughty silence, Mastodon seated between them with a quizzical expression on his doggy face. "Even if they _are _mad."

And that had seemed to be that – until….

They were just about to leave Lothering when they came upon a cage tall enough to fit two men. From it floated the sounds of a language Charlotte had never heard before. When she looked to see its occupant, she was startled to discover an enormous… what? She had never seen anything like him. He stood with absolute stillness on his feet, despite a weary pallor and obviously thinned frame. His skin was a deep gold, with white hair arranged in tight cornrows along his skull. As they drew closer, Morrigan made a little sound of distress. Mastodon was so alarmed, he immediately went to sniff her for signs of illness or wounds. It was evidence of her distraction that she did not bat him away.

Morrigan turned to the cage, addressing Charlotte in particular. "This is a proud and powerful creature, left as prey for the Darkspawn. If you can see no use for him, I suggest releasing him for mercy's sake alone!" The man took no notice of them, continuing to speak softly to himself as if in prayer.

"_Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun…."_

Finally, sensing Charlotte's stare, the man opened his eyes. They were an astonishing shade of violet and raked over her with indifference as he ceased his recitation and moved subtly away from the front of his cage. In a deep, rough voice, he spoke.

"You are not one of my captors – I will not amuse you any more than I have the other humans. Leave me in peace."

Tentatively, Charlotte approached him. "And what did you do that put you here?"

He answered in that same calm tone, "I have been convicted of murder. Now leave me to my fate."

He displayed no denial, no regret – only impassive resignation. "Did you commit murder?" Charlotte asked. Behind her, she heard Alistair mutter, "Oh _great_, I know where this is leading." Morrigan shushed him.

"I am afraid so," it was Leliana who replied, her face tinged with regret. "He was found at a farmhold some time ago, with the blood of eight people on his hands." Morrigan looked at the large Qunari with sympathy, while Alistair grimaced in horror.

This was serious indeed. Charlotte addressed him again, "What is your name?"

He stared at her, a question briefly lighting across his broad features. Finally, he said, "I am Sten of the Beresaad."

"He is Qunari," Morrigan explained. "He hails from the North and follows another religion that favors discipline and strength." Her eyes roamed admiringly over his tall frame, easily reaching eight feet high. "I would guess he is an accomplished warrior."

Interesting, and potentially very useful. Charlotte turned back to the prisoner, "And what is your fate, if you remain here?"

It seemed he felt the answer was obvious, for he initially offered no reply. Then, he said simply. "Death will be my atonement."

As Charlotte considered the Qunari, Leliana offered some helpful information. "The Reverend Mother holds the key that may release him. We can appeal to her for it, if you wish."

Charlotte thought she knew what the Reverend Mother might say. Despite her occasional piety, particularly in deference to her family, Charlotte knew only too well the actual level of charity most representatives of the Maker were capable of. She had learned this from those brothers and sisters in Denerim's Chantry, where she would watch as they greeted nobles for the Landsmeets and turned those beggars they deemed unworthy away into the gutter.

Making a decision, Charlotte pulled a kit from her pack and approached the lock, green eyes boring into Sten's violet ones. "If you could, would you seek another way for your atonement?" The small, pale face contemplated the large golden one, searching for acquiescence or agreement.

He looked at the pick in her hand, then back into her face. "…Perhaps. What does your wisdom say is equal to my crime?"

"Come help me defend the land against the Blight. I am a Grey Warden and, in case you haven't heard, we're a bit short on men. What do you say?"

"Surprising… my people have heard legends of the Grey Wardens' strength and skill." He looked upon Charlotte and narrowed his gaze disapprovingly. "Though I suppose not every legend is true."

Impatient, Charlotte disregarded this. "We will see. Will you accompany me on this important quest?"

After a time, he nodded, "Your proposal is suitable. I will follow you into battle. In doing so, I shall find my atonement." Sten moved away from the door, giving her space to perform her own brand of magic.

Excited, Charlotte instructed Mastodon. "Alright, boy, you know what to do." The hound slunk away, watching around the corner for potential on comers who might try and stop her.

"What? You can't be serious! You are not going to pick that lock." Genuinely outraged, Alistair reached out a hand to stop her.

Leliana was in agreement, "If we just ask the Reverend Mother…."

Morrigan sneered, cutting Leliana off mid-sentence. "Yes, let us ask for help from the very person who left him here to rot or be torn to pieces by the Darkspawn." Leliana scowled and opened her mouth to retort.

"Hush, all of you! We haven't much time." Charlotte was still smiling, sure this was the right thing. "We need help and he is a warrior, is he not? Why leave him here to die when we can just take him? In all this confusion, who's going to notice and stop us?" She eagerly awaited their answer.

Alistair was still reluctant, "Charlotte, I just don't know. He killed eight people – do you think it wise to include a potentially violent man in our already small numbers? Sorry." Alistair apologized with a polite wince to the Qunari, who seemed entirely unbothered by his judgment.

"Beggars can't be choosers," she argued quietly, inserting that irresistible persuasiveness into her voice. "And we could really use some muscle," she jerked her head to indicate Leliana and Morrigan, who suddenly both looked a little frail in comparison to the man in the cage.

Alistair frowned at her for a time, still unconvinced. Charlotte made a little sound in the back of her throat that momentarily distracted him. "We can't invoke the Right of Conscription, Alistair. We'll be arrested the moment we try."

Relenting, he sighed. "I don't know why I bother; it seems you lead me against my better judgment anyway." Shaking his head, he backed away.

Unimpeded, the lock was picked and the door swung open with a flourish. Curtsying a little, Charlotte grinned. "Welcome Sten, to our little band of heroes." Sten looked upon them, taking in the poorly dressed Saarebas; the odd priestess of Ferelden religion; the whiny warrior; a large animal who had barked at Sten in what he assumed was a positive manner and was now sitting back on his haunches and scratching one ear; and the tiny leader, who seemed to act as a sort of Arishok to this group of strange people.

Despite over two weeks without food and water, the sturdy warrior seemed only a little tired as he exited his prison. "As you said, we will see."


	17. Unholy Cheese and Fine Wine

_Sorry, this is a bit shorter, but seeing as it is Father's Day tomorrow and I have a pile of neglected paperwork to finish when I get home, I don't know if I'll be able to do any writing tomorrow (or at least not the fun kind!) I hope you enjoy it and Happy Father's Day!_

_Enid._

* * *

The tawny-skinned elf entered the Gnawed Noble tavern, the sunny wind dying behind him when the door shut with a thump. The main floor was occupied by many patrons, exchanging the latest gossip and news from other parts of Ferelden. Little did they know that they would soon be remarking on the untimely death of one of his own patrons… or rather, the mark of his patron.

As he wove his way between the crowded tables, the assassin caught bits and pieces of excited conversation.

"…And they say that the Arl massacred the entire castle, claiming them Couslands was traitors to the throne…."

"…You didn't hear? The King was killed at Ostagar by Loghain himself! Now, the nobles are stirred right up and there's talk of civil war…"

"Yes, he's issued a reward for any remaining Grey Wardens! If I only I could get my hands on one…"

"….And the Queen is trapped in the castle. Oh sure, he _claims _she's in perfect health, but seeing whats he did to the King, who knows what Loghain has got planned, even if she is his own daughter…."

He couldn't help but admit that it was surprising that people would turn so soon on a man he had heard was considered an unparalleled hero. Then again, people were fickle creatures – of this knowledge he was an expert. Careful to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, he went to one of the private drawing rooms in the back. The barkeep took little notice of him, despite the novelty of pointed ears among his clientele, normally composed of the upper crust of Denerim and Ferelden at large, depending on the time of day. Only the middle classes and up ate and dined here, while those of a rougher orientation took their chances at the Black Pearl. Frankly, he preferred the company there to here. The message which had forced him to this establishment reached him while making ready to ride back for Denerim's docks, where he could ship out for Antiva by morning. It seemed that there was more for him to do. Ah well, so much killing and so little time…

He knocked once, then three times in sharp succession. There was a ruffled pause, then the door creaked open. A large man with nervous eyes gruffly demanded, "Password?"

He was not amused by such petty gate-keeping; quick as a shadow, he withdrew a dagger from his belt and placed it at the man's throat before he had time to even register what was happening. The elf's hood slipped ever so slightly, to allow his gleaming eyes to send their deadly message.

A laugh as rich as toffee floated through the door, "Zevran, release him. He does not know you."

Zevran eyed the guard speculatively; in response, the man quaked, but attempted to hide it, betrayed only by a few beads of sweat on his forehead. Zevran pressed the blade a little closer, then withdrew, swiftly sheathing it and resuming a graceful pace as he entered the room. The guard shut the door behind him, an ugly glower marring his brow behind Zevran's back. Before entering the second chamber, Zevran stopped without turning around.

"Take care, my friend, such an expression could be misinterpreted."

Shock cleared the guard's face, his bearded jaw slackening. Zevran smiled to himself, amber eyes glittering under his hood and he moved into the next room.

Once there, the assassin took in his surroundings with a habitual meticulousness that took only seconds to complete. Two chairs, a fireplace. A small table. One rug, no wall hangings, but there were curtains pulled shut over a single window. No visible weapons or traps. A fire crackled in the grate, the table contained two glasses and a bottle of wine. It better not be that Ferelden grape muck – no vintage here could compare even remotely with those boasted in Antiva.

The man he came to see stood and smiled broadly, the expression not touching his icy blue eyes. "Zevran, it is good to see you. Please, sit." He indicated the chair across from him; it was smaller and less comfortable. Zevran loved subtle assertions of authority. Gracefully, he sat, sliding down the hood of his cloak and leaning back at his ease.

Master Ignacio poured them each a glass of red wine; it caught the light of the fire, shimmering and waving in the glass. Zevran smelled the faint traces of spice; ah, an Antivan wine. He picked up his glass and they clinked; Zevran waited until Ignacio drank first. The Master smiled knowingly and took a large sip, holding up his glass to toast Zevran as he swallowed comfortably. Zevran smiled and returned the gesture, murmuring "_Salute." _He drank. Ah, heaven.

"I trust you are well, Zevran? Your last piece of work was most… inspiring." Master Ignacio smiled, twirling the glass stem between his fingers. He was a handsome man, with short grey hair and strong bone structure. He was also one of the most ruthless masters known to the Crows, and Zevran was glad to please him.

"It was an interesting exercise, Master." He tilted the glass, enjoying the firelight glittering in his wine. "I am curious to learn more of this next… endeavor." Zevran's molten eyes raised to seek the mood of his Master's icy blue ones.

Ignacio was delighted; this must be a propitious contract indeed. "We have been sought by a much higher power here in Ferelden. I am to remain in the shadows this time – you shall meet with our client."

Zevran knew what this meant: he was being groomed to become a Master. It could have simply been timing due to his location or a result of the good work he had accomplished as of late. It could also be borne of a genuine wish to promote him. Either way, Zevran curiously felt… nothing. No sense of pride or achievement. Only a tiredness that called for the warm shores of his mistress Antiva, with her fine spices, fish stew, and leather boots.

"And when do I get the inestimable pleasure?" He inquired, sipping a little more from his wine. It was delicious, but he was a Crow; while on duty, one must keep a clear head.

"Tonight, after seven bells have tolled. You will go to the other end of the Market square. A guard who has been informed of your importance will meet you and lead you into the castle." Zevran raised his eyebrows infinitesimally; the castle? So was he being hired directly by the King? It was an invigorating prospect.

Instructions received, Zevran placed his wine glass back on the table with agile care. He bowed to his Master and was allowed to kiss his ring.

"_Esso mio privilegio, Signore."_

His respects paid, the _Ombra Della Morte _disappeared from the tavern.

* * *

It was about three days to Redcliffe if you were traveling on the main road with horses. As Charlotte's group were afforded neither luxury, they made a five day journey on foot by switching back and forth from the Imperial Highway in less populated areas to manageable terrain off the beaten path.

There had been bandits to contend with, who descended on them without ceremony, desperate as they were to escape the oncoming horde. Charlotte discovered the true meaning of pain on their second day when she stumbled into one of their steel-jawed foothold traps during a fight. It had nearly removed her right foot and she howled in agony as the others fought down the group of mercenaries attempting to rob them of their goods.

Morrigan proved to be an adequate healer; between her ministrations and Alistair's knowledge of health salves and bandaging wounds ("I get myself injured quite a bit, actually," he told her with much cheer), they were able to save her from a life of incompetent misery. It set them back an entire day, however, as Charlotte could not move until the muscles, bone, and skin had properly secured.

All being well, they planned to chase dawn's earliest light the following morning and reach Redcliffe village proper by the afternoon.

It was night; the crescent moon hung in the sky, three-fourths completed. Its effulgent glow lit the night sky that glittered with stars. Sten was taking first watch over their camp, which Morrigan had also taken care to protect with a series of shield spells that would conceal them from sight as well as confuse and redirect anyone foolish enough to get close. Darkspawn had appeared here and there, but it seemed they were not yet organized enough to really press forward. Charlotte was quietly relieved, while continuing to brace herself for the oncoming storm.

Although Charlotte had no watch tonight – Sten would relinquish his post to Alistair before dawn - she could not sleep. When her eyes closed, nightmares plagued her. The first few nights since her Joining, all she had seen was Darkspawn and the Archdemon, its insistent call burning in her veins. Now, the dreams grew more sinister, showing her that night… showing her their blood, making her listen to the screams, watching their faces as they died…

Tears glittered, unshed, in her malachite eyes as she stoked the fire with unnecessary force and tried to will her grief away. She couldn't face it – there was so much, such an overwhelming task before her. She couldn't afford to spare even a moment to her anguish, or she might completely fall apart.

Charlotte lay down the hand that held the makeshift fire poker and stared into the flames, a dancing mixture of burnished orange, yellow, and indigo blue. The nights were still a bit chilly, despite Justinian creeping around the corner. In the afternoons, the sun was getting hot, making her uncomfortable under her gambeson and armor. They had yet to find armor for Sten – he was just so _huge _– and she worried over how they would equip him with dwindling funds and authorities waiting to take them to Fort Drakon at every village.

"Hello, why are you still awake?" The soft query made her jump; Charlotte turned and saw Alistair, hair ruffled and sleepy in nothing but a linen tunic and breeches with leather patches on the hips and knees. It must be later than she thought. Charlotte blushed a little; seeing him this way still felt slightly too intimate. She turned back to the fire.

Charlotte wished for Mastodon, his presence would calm her. Since he was busy chasing rabbits on her bedroll (at least that's what she thought the yipping meant), she would have to soothe herself. "Can't sleep," she muttered, unnecessarily stoking the fire again. After a moment's hesitation, Alistair came to sit beside her.

Ever since they left Lothering, Charlotte's mood had seemed to grow increasingly dark. She had distributed solid orders as usual, equipping Leliana with worn leathers just outside Lothering from a dwarven merchant they had saved from the Darkspawn. She had also managed to find an enormous Greatsword for Sten, who accepted it in displeased silence. When Charlotte had asked whether he would prefer another one, the cryptic Qunari had replied, "No, this will be… adequate," and provided no further explanation. After they made their first camp, Alistair had heard her crying at night, his Grey Warden sense tingling when she had a particularly bad dream. He could guess what she was crying about and it tore at him to think of her alone with so much to bear. However, his fear of his own tactlessness and desire to avoid offending or upsetting her had kept him from saying anything. Now, she seemed clogged with her struggle to control her grief, her sadness morphing more and more into frustrated anger.

Alistair decided to take a chance. "Charlotte, I-" Her eyes were like glass when she looked at him, obviously warning him away. She was as fierce as a lioness; Alistair gulped, then gathered his courage.

"I know what happened to your family, I can see it's eating you alive. Please, let me help." His voice trembled a little towards the end, so he cleared his throat, eyes full of trepidation as he tried not to break contact with her stern gaze.

Angry, Charlotte said nothing, poking the fire as if it were Alistair's eye. When she lost patience with this, Charlotte cast aside the poker and glared at her hands, which had begun shaking. She closed her eyes, taking deep breaths, her forehead wrinkled in concentration. Alistair waited fearfully next to her, not moving to touch her or attempting to say anything, wanting to help and just looking for his chance.

Gradually, the shaking decreased and Charlotte clenched her hands into fists. Now that Alistair had – as Fergus was wont to say – "poked the bear," Charlotte felt heat ripping through her. She didn't know how she had let her grief get this bad, clawing away inside her like a ravenous animal. The realization of her destructive need for self-control washed over her, cleansing some of the heat away. If Charlotte was honest with herself, she had always been this way. No matter how close she had been to both her father and mother, there was always some part of herself she held back from others, apprehensive of her feelings. She felt a great deal at a deep level, to the point where her emotions would overtake her, leaving her feeling helpless to control them. If Charlotte didn't let certain things – or people – in, she was safer.

It was sickening to think this – sickening to think that some part of her had not been offered unconditionally to her loving mother and father. Had that been part of his worry? To ensure her future in case she was frozen by grief if he and Fergus died, or even her mother? Charlotte felt ashamed, and tears fell unbidden as a hole tore open deep inside.

"Oh, rubbish… Oh, I'm so sorry, Oh Charlotte…" Alistair reached out one hand, then drew back, distressed at her pain.

"I'm… I'm…." Charlotte hiccupped, too distraught to say the words.

Still being careful not to touch her, Alistair leaned forward, his eyes melting with affection and concern. "You're what?"

"I'm _terrible_," Charlotte blurted, then burst into noisy tears, sobs wracking her small body as she wailed to the moon.

Alistair was aghast; how could she say such a thing?! Shyness forgotten, he wrapped strong arms around her, nearly hauling her into his lap in an effort to wrap her in complete comfort. "What is this? Charlotte, speak to me." For a moment, all she could do was wrack with sobs.

Alistair rocked her back and forth, trying to be patient. He had no idea what to do and tried to think what he would want if the roles were reversed. It was hard to say; since Duncan died, Alistair had been equally private about his bereavement and not even spoken of him with Charlotte. And she had lost her entire family, Duncan had been a lot to him but… it seemed so much different. Alistair struggled with frustration; what could he do?

Gradually, Charlotte worked her way down back to hiccupping again. When it seemed safe to interrupt her, Alistair made himself busy by wiping her tears away with the pads of his thumbs. Her eyes rose to meet his then and her little face was so broken, Alistair's heart wept for her.

"Why are you saying this?" He whispered, surprised at how strong he sounded.

She sniffled, clearly embarrassed. Charlotte covered her nose, "Um… do you have a tissue?" Alistair went to his tent and came back with one of his handkerchiefs. "It's a bit dirty," he offered apologetically.

She gave him a watery smile and blew her nose, "Thank you, I… feel better."

Alistair was not about to forget what had prompted this impressive display of waterworks. "What did you mean you are terrible?"

Agitated, Charlotte picked at the linen in her hands, shifting uncomfortably on her seat made from a log. "I… Well, I…"

She took a deep breath, then looked him in the eye. He could see that it was costing her to do so.

"I ab-bandoned them, Alistair. And my father… we f-fought that day. I was…I was…" Overcome, she looked away again.

The terrible truth gripped her in cold nausea. If Alistair knew, he would hate her.

A warm hand enveloped hers in its grip; startled, she felt the rough callouses on his skin and met his eyes, shining with kindness. "Whatever it is," he promised warmly, "It will not make me think less of you. You have been incredibly brave since you became a Grey Warden. You've kept us all together – I wouldn't be here without you. So, whatever it is, just tell me, because I will admire you just the same."

Even though fresh tears fell, Charlotte felt something give way and it all came out in a tumbling rush. The betrothal, her fury and refusal to dance with the Teyrn. Her plan to run away. And then that night and how terribly it had all ended.

Alistair sat and listened, still holding her hand, not saying a word until he was certain she was finished. Once Charlotte had relieved herself of the whole sorry tale, he waited until she caught her breath before answering.

"I understand why you feel this way, but you musn't blame yourself. If Howe hadn't attacked the castle, your father would have come looking for you and maybe even broken the promise of marriage. He only wanted what was best for you. And, from what you've told me, your mother and father sacrificed their lives to save you. Do you really think they would want you to honor their memory this way? By feeling… guilty?" She gaped at him, at a loss for words.

Alistair shifted, diffident as ever, but determined to make her see. "You are not a bad person, Charlotte. Believe me, I would know," he smirked a little with mirth. "If you were, you wouldn't care a bit about what happened. You raking yourself over the coals is only proof of your goodness. Please stop doing this to yourself. We need you. I need you." He added the last part in a humble whisper, the shadows failing to hide the color in his cheeks.

It was almost too much to absorb; some part of Charlotte knew there was truth in his words, but everything was clouded with her height of emotion and the implications of the last part of what he had said, _I need you_… Could she be there? For anyone?

Being close to someone – it was entirely different than leading them. Thus far, the person she had become closest to was Morrigan, because the witch asked no questions and obviously couldn't be bothered to care. It had been easy to fall in alongside her, benefiting from the young woman's strength and intelligence as enjoyable diversions on the road. Leliana, despite her best intentions, grated at Charlotte's nerves with her constant story-telling and need for conversation. Chagrined, Charlotte realized that was nothing to do with her – it was everything to do with Charlotte and her need to keep people at an arm's length. Charlotte glanced at the strong warrior beside her; could she really let someone in that much?

"You're right, I'm sorry." She smiled a little, squeezing his hand before letting it go.

Relieved, he smiled, while inwardly regretting the loss of contact. "And I am glad to hear it. Do you feel… better?"

Charlotte appraised her internal condition, wanting to provide him an honest answer. She was surprised to find that she did, actually. The gnawing pain was still there, but it had lessened considerably. Feeling much more lighthearted, Charlotte really smiled this time, taking Alistair's breath away. "Yes, I really think I do. Thank you so much, Alistair."

Even with a tear-streaked face, she was beautiful. _Maker, how did I ever get lucky enough to meet her? _He wondered. Alistair cleared his throat, not wishing to share that part of his thoughts just yet.

"Why don't you go back to sleep, then? We've got a few hours till dawn, get some rest."

As she walked away, Alistair watched her go, heart sinking again as he remembered the unpleasant task before him. _I have to tell her_, he thought. They would be in Redcliffe soon and he couldn't let her meet the Arl without knowing; Eamon would probably assume she knew, or at least others who knew him would, and she would be furious to get caught unawares. It was just too important a piece of information to hide any longer.

Sighing, Alistair went to put on his armor for the watch. _I just hope you like me half as much as I like you_….

* * *

"Um, could we talk for a moment? I've got something to tell you." Alistair was radiating nervousness; they had stopped for some lunch on the road. Bodhan Feddic and his addled son, Sandal, had found them on the West Road early that morning. Bodhan had been relieved to find some protectors from the bandits crawling alongside the highway like locusts.

"Sandal kept them off, he did, but any more of them and we would have been goners!" Charlotte and her party eyed the young dwarf with skepticism; how exactly had this smiling idiot fended off a band of thieves?

When the merchant had requested to stay with them on their travels for protection on the condition that he provided them wares at a very high discount, Charlotte had accepted the exchange with relief. This little man seemed good-natured, and her personal store of coin was growing ever smaller. Soon, they would have been out of supplies and all of them made beggars if they couldn't find someone willing to provide them work without asking too many questions.

Tummy full from Bodhan's stores – the cold chicken, bread, and cheese had been offered for free, for "Agreeing to travel with the likes of us!" – Charlotte's mood was much improved. That plus her confession to Alistair the night before had helped to feel like a different woman. She was grateful and ready to handle whatever he had for her. "Of course, let's just… go this way."

The pair walked a bit awkwardly together towards the thinning edge of the trees. The Hinterlands were not as rich in greenery as the Bannorn, the lavish trees of the Wilds slowly trailing off into the faces of russet stone that gave Redcliffe its name. Among the craggy rock faces, scrawny Brittle bush bloomed yellow flowers. Redwood pine trees loomed overhead, leaning like contemplating sages from the highest rocks. They were a few miles north of Redcliffe, the impressive visage of the silver Frostback Mountains beginning in the distance, muddled a little by puffy white clouds.

Alistair cleared his throat, shifting from foot to foot. Charlotte had begun to recognize this as one of his tells when he was nervous about something. Wanting to reassure him, she gently touched his shoulder. "Alistair, what is it?"

He seemed hesitant on how to begin; sensing that Charlotte was becoming alarmed, he plowed in, hoping for the best. "Well, it's… do you remember when I told you I knew Arl Eamon?"

Charlotte gave a positive shake of her head, her expression still puzzled.

"Well, you see, he took me in as a boy and raised me until I was sent to the Chantry. Remember we discussed that when we talked about Ser Donall and the Ashes." Charlotte nodded for him to go on, remembering how fruitless that conversation had been. As far as she was concerned, they had much more important things to do than go chasing the mad-cap scheme of some Chantry scholar.

"What I didn't tell you is the reason why Arl Eamon did that. The truth is… well the truth is I'm King Maric's bastard. There, I said it."

To her credit, Charlotte absorbed this information with only a light indication of surprise. Internally, her mind raced with the implications. Alistair was Cailan's half-brother? He was the son of the _King?_ Looking at his face, she wondered how she hadn't noticed it. He looked so much like Cailan only – in her opinion – Alistair was better-looking, his face unmarred by arrogance and stupidity. She hated to scorn Cailan's memory like that, but it was true. Then, that got her thinking even more.

Would Alistair have to be King?

"Please say something," he begged, drawn beyond resistance by her silence.

"I'm trying to decide whether to punch you for hiding this from me, slap myself silly for not noticing it before, or bow to the only living Prince." She answered finally; his face cleared with relief. She sounded upset, but not angry. That was a good start.

"I'm so _sorry_ for not telling you sooner it just… never seemed to come up."

Charlotte glared at him, "OK, I'm going to punch you."

He put up his hands, waving them in haste. "Wait! Wait! I know you're right, but at least hear me out. In all my experience, this knowledge has only ever hurt me. People who knew either resented me for it or coddled me; most thought me a lowly commoner unworthy of being Maric's bastard. He never claimed me, so I'm not in line to the throne – thank the Maker – and… I liked you not knowing. It… gave me a chance for you to like me for myself. Even Duncan treated me differently because of it."

This last part stopped her from getting angry; she only too well the disadvantages of being defined where you came from. She was a little hurt that he hadn't seen fit to confide in her, but she realized this was foolish. After all, he was telling her now and she hadn't exactly left the door open before last night to facilitate such close intimacies.

Charlotte decided to let him off the hook this time. "So, is there anything else I should know?" She inquired, granting him a crooked grin. Alistair beamed, exhilarated by her positive reception of his news.

"Besides my unholy love of fine cheeses and a minor obsession with my hair, no that's it." He flashed a charming grin. "Just the prince thing."

"Oh, is that all?" Charlotte chortled, then got a wicked idea. Before Alistair could stop her, she reached up and ruffled his carefully styled spikes, tousling them into ruin.

"Hey!" Alistair laughed, batting her hands away as Charlotte dashed out of his reach, eyes gleaming with mischief.

"That's what you get this time, Prince Alistair. Next time you lie to me, I really will punch you, prince or no. Got it?" She softened her words by continuing to smile at him. Alistair nodded, hands drifting protectively over his spoiled coif.

"Alright then, let's head into Redcliffe."


	18. Evil Dead Things and Stuff

_ Hi, sorry for the delay in posting another chapter. It's been a hellish week. I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

The friendlier relationship between the two Wardens seemed to create a generally more relaxed atmosphere for the others. As they closed the gap between themselves and Redcliffe, cheerful conversation began to flow.

"So, Leliana, let me get this straight… you were a cloistered sister?" Alistair quirked an eyebrow in askance as the five companions walked alongside Bodhan's cart. Sten was scouting ahead of the rest in his make-shift chainmail constructed out of several sets with loving care by Charlotte and Leliana, one hand resting on the hilt of his Greatsword. Charlotte walked a little behind, trailing to the right as she chatted with Alistair and Leliana, toward whom she had been making an effort to recompense for her previously chilly behavior. The sister was likeable enough and very cheerful; she fought bravely when the occasion called for it and had been most informative on the latest news from Denerim, betraying a keen interest in politics. Thus had Charlotte's and Alistair's burning curiosities gotten the better of them regarding this clever woman's true nature.

Upon hearing Alistair's question, a distinct snort trumpeted from the opposite side of the cart, where Morrigan had taken point by Sandal. Bodhan had confided that the young dwarf had a talent for enchantments and Morrigan now hovered nearby his every movement, obviously fascinated and seeking some sort of explanation for his unusual talent. Dwarves do make runes, but their natural resistance to magic does not lend them talents of enchantment that can match those of the Tranquil, a group of mages whose connection to the Fade has been severed. The conditions surrounding the source of Tranquility were a mystery to outsiders, but all those who had experienced their eery calm well understood the unnerving effect this magical lobotomy had on the personalities of such mages. From what Bodhan had indicated, the young man not only possessed a talent matching that of most Tranquil, but exceeding it by many degrees. He had offered his services as another token of his appreciation for their protection, should they desire to improve any weapons possessing rune slots ready for enchantment.

Leliana smiled indulgently; she had a great affection growing for Alistair. He was sweet in an awkward kind of way, and his warm heart and earnest manner endeared him to her. "I was affirmed; I never took my vows as a Sister of the Chantry."

Charlotte joined the conversation, "So you were a lay sister then?"

Leliana nodded, "Indeed; it was a very peaceful life. Even though I am glad to be doing the work of the Maker alongside you, I must admit I shall miss it." She sighed beatifically, her blue eyes wide and bright hair shining in the sun.

"I was never much one for the Chantry myself," Alistair confided, flashing a cheeky grin. "I'd get utterly bored listening to nothing but silence; sometimes, it would get so quiet in the monastery that I would start screaming until one of the brothers came running. I would tell them I was just checking."

Leliana looked mystified, "Checking for what?"

"I dunno, really. I think I just wanted some sort of response out of my environment. I'm the kind of person who needs stimulation." He waggled his eyebrows.

"Twould seem, then, that those books you claimed to have afforded you such a rich education did little to occupy your mind, after all." Morrigan's insult floated with easy grace over the squeak and clonk of the cart. Alistair's ears pinkened.

Leliana staged an intervention on Alistair's behalf, "You know, Morrigan, for someone who seems to have never received a proper education, you are very quick to insult those who can boast of one. I wonder why that is?"

Morrigan rolled her head and right shoulder with haughty nonchalance, but said nothing in return. Charlotte had gotten accustomed to Morrigan's barbs; for her, they mattered less than her behavior, and since she continued to fight admirably, cook, take watches over the camp, and brew health potions, she wasn't going to get overly fussy about her choice of words. She changed the subject. "So, you were in the monastery, but you trained as a Templar?"

Alistair glared briefly at Morrigan, but then let it go, "Yes, although I didn't really like it, to tell you the truth. The combat training, yes, I enjoyed that, but not the hunting mages part. I actually had to witness a Harrowing once and it was awful."

Leliana crinkled her face, unfamiliar with the term. Charlotte noticed that this expression, with her full cupid's bow mouth and button nose, was very endearing. "'Harrowing'?"

"It's the trial where they test new mages, they…well." Alistair's eyes slid over to where Morrigan strolled, obviously not wanting her to hear. Charlotte felt a rush of affection; even when he didn't like the woman, he was still protective of her. How very Alistair.

"Yes?" Leliana prompted, now even more interested in what he had to say.

His voice was gentle and very sad, "The girl they tested they… put a demon inside her to see if she could…resist. She couldn't. We had to end it quickly. I didn't have much interest in becoming a Templar after that." Charlotte and Leliana stared at him in shocked silence, horrified that such a thing would be done.

"And you accuse me of blood magic being the result of my apostacy? My apostacy is the result of your vile, inhumane practices. I refuse to be an inmate of the Chantry, left to their sadistic will." Morrigan put her nose in the air, her posture defiant. Mastodon saw this and swaggered behind her, wanting to show his support. The cart clunked loudly over a rock in the dusty pathway, forcing Sandal and Bodhan to correct their trajectory. As they wove to the left, the others followed automatically, each occupied with their own thoughts.

"Not all Chantry people are like that, Morrigan. There are those who honestly wish to protect." Leliana spoke up first. Hesitantly, she added, "Some I knew were not like that, though. They bragged about what they did, trying to impress others." She made her voice high and squeaky, the normally pleasant soprano ringing in Charlotte's ears. "'Oh, Lady Adele, you fed and clothed twenty orphans, how noble!' 'No, no, it is nothing, Lady Clarabelle. You treated forty lepers and gave them massages!"

Alistair made a face, "Ugh, did Lady Clarabelle really give forty lepers massages?" His expression was so disgusted Charlotte giggled; Mastodon saw her mirth and joined in by panting happily.

Leliana shrugged, mischief glinting in her eyes. She surreptitiously winked at Charlotte, "Who knows? Lady Clarabelle had strange tastes. I wouldn't be surprised if she did that… and more." Her voice became spooky, and Mastodon whined, lowering his tail a little. Mabari were very sensitive to tone of voice and could sometimes be easily taken in by such antics. Charlotte shook her head to indicate all was well, and he chuffed in dignified relief.

"You're having me on!" Alistair accused, eyes narrowed. Charlotte and Leliana laughed. Ahead, Sten overheard, and grunted in a way Charlotte thought most disapproving. It made her grin.

"Over here!" A desperate voice cut through their laughter; down the path was a stone bridge and little figure danced upon it most urgently, waving frantic arms about.

"What in Thedas…" Charlotte and Alistair hurried forward, cautioning Sten to stay back, worried the Qunari would alarm the traveler.

"Oh, thank the Maker you're here!" The man was young, barely older than his teens. He wore a farmer's tunic and trousers, but carried a long bow and quiver on his back. Beneath his freckles, his skin was pale.

"What? What are you talking about?" Alistair's voice filled with concerned authority. Charlotte came to stand beside him, while the others slowed behind, Morrigan taking care to camouflage herself near the back of the cart. Leliana also rushed forward, scanning the perimeter cautiously before focusing on the farmer boy.

The boy's eyes widened, "You mean…You don't know? You just came here?" His jaw dropped slightly, as if he couldn't believe this would happen.

"Ye-es," Charlotte replied, exchanging wary looks with Alistair. "What has happened?"

"Has no one heard?" The boy was wan and obviously unaware of Alistair's thinning patience. If there were more troubles afoot then they needed to know what they were dealing with, and quickly. Charlotte idly wondered if these problems at every turn were somehow punishment for her previously easy existence. Morrigan prepared to be scornful of yet another charity case.

"Heard what? That the Arl has fallen ill?" Charlotte asked.

The boy grew even more agitated, "He could be _dead_ for all we know! We've received no contact from the castle for almost a week! It just stopped and then three nights ago the attacks began!" He looked upon them with desperation, obviously having reached the tethers end of his hope.

Alistair, despite his usual shyness of taking the lead, could no longer tolerate the suspense. "Who is charge here?" he demanded, deciding the boy was not fit to inform them of the situation. Charlotte could not agree more.

"Bann Teagan arrived last week. He is in the Chantry."

"Take us to him," Charlotte commanded and they began to descend the hill, Bodhan making camp near the top of the road to avoid capsizing on the rocky, steep incline. Charlotte ordered Sten to remain behind and guard the camp along with Mastodon. Although the hound was not happy to be separated from his mistress, he took his orders stoically, settling into a companionable silence with the Qunari soldier.

On their way to the Chantry, Alistair asked the young farmer, "Why did Bann Teagan come to Redcliffe? Should he not be in Rainesfere?"

"I don't know, sir." The boy's accent rounded out his words to make everything sound as if it ended in "uh". Charlotte felt rather cut-glass in comparison and rued how this would separate her from others on their travels. "But it's a good thing he did come, or more would be dead already."

"Who has been attacking you?" Charlotte asked, taking care not to trip and tumble down the very steep hill. It was as if they had simply carved a wide path in the side of a rockface.

"M-monsters, my lady. Living corpses – they descend from the castle every night when the moon is high! We fought as best we could, but we're no army, my lady. Many have died." His eyes were lined with dark shadows as he turned back to look at them.

_Living corpses?_ This rendered all of them speechless for a time, even Morrigan, who was normally so quick to remark on everything. When they arrived in the village proper, they saw the damage that had been done. Chunks and scrapes had been taken out of the earth, like someone had ridden a broken cart in haphazard circles around the main yard. The houses on the pier looked mostly abandoned; in the distance behind the Chantry, what Charlotte feared was a pile of bodies loomed like a distorted shadow. Men with discouraged faces attempted sword practice in front of the chantry, overseen by an armored man with a grim expression and the most impressive mustache Charlotte had ever seen. As they crossed the yard, he caught Charlotte's eye, following her curiously, before focusing back on the task before him of training farmers and fishermen.

The chapel was cool and dark, with few candles burning and the braziers lit low in the rough stone walls. The right-hand side of the nave was blocked by a pile of benches, evidently thrown together to prevent intruders from benefiting from the tall glass windows. Refugees of the massacres cried and prayed, huddled together in corners and on the floor, few of them taking notice of the unusual group as they made way to the back office where Bann Teagan was consulting with a village elder.

The elder exited the Bann's gracious presence, his face grey. Bann Teagan obviously fared no better himself; unaware of their audience, he rubbed his face tiredly.

When the boy knocked on the door, Bann Teagan looked up, his glassy eyes weary. "It's… Tomas, yes? How can I be of service?" Teagan's gaze traveled over behind Tomas, flickering with surprise at Charlotte and her comrades.

"Bann Teagan?" Alistair stepped forward before Tomas could answer, his face apprehensive.

Teagan squinted and rose from his chair, chasing the recognition Alistair had stirred in him. "Yes? Do I know you?"

There was an awkward silence and then the clearing of a throat, "Well, you might remember me, but the last time we saw each other I was a lot younger and… covered in mud."

The Bann's face lit up, "Alistair? Is it you?" He hurried from behind the desk towards the young man, arms reaching out as he smiled with disbelief. "By the Maker, how are you? You're alive! This is wonderful news." The man stopped short of hugging him, but obviously felt a great deal of relief and affection. Alistair's responding shy smile broke Charlotte's heart; somehow, she questioned the extent of loving treatment Alistair had really received here when he was a boy. According to his account, when the Arl took him in, he never claimed Alistair and so he was forced to live in servant quarters and even the stables. When the Arl remarried – to an Orlesian woman, no less, which Charlotte found distasteful, considering how soon it had been after the war – Alistair had been packed off to the Chantry without so much as "Good luck to you." Or at least that is how she imagined it. Alistair made excuses for Lady Isolde, expressing empathy for her fears that her husband had fathered a bastard with one of Redcliffe's serving maids, but Charlotte had seen her at court. She was a pious woman to a fault and extremely haughty with Ferelden women, dripping disdain at their "backward" fashions and excusing herself from most social events. Despite her husband's life in the public eye as the King's Chancellor, she had rarely deigned to spend time with other Ferelden nobility, devoting all her spare time in Denerim to the Grand Cleric and Revered Mother of the city's Chantry.

Bann Teagan took hold of Alistair's shoulders, his joy overshadowed suddenly by anger. "What Loghain did…. His treachery shall not go unpunished, of that I can assure you, my young friend."

Charlotte gaped, "You… you know Loghain killed the King?"

The nobleman scoffed, "His lies do not fool me – claiming the Grey Wardens, an apolitical order, are responsible for the murder of my nephew is the act of a desperate man. He will see justice, just as soon as those of us who know him for what he is can deliver it upon him." The proclamation was fierce and without reservation. Charlotte suddenly felt warm all over; out of the corner of her eye, she could sense that Alistair reacted similarly. It was a relief to know that they were not truly alone.

"Now, what fortune has brought you to us? Please, come sit." Ever the gentleman, Teagan led them into the small office, bowing to the ladies and raising surprised brows as he took in the sight of a sauntering Morrigan, her leather-clad hips swaying in a hypnotic rhythm. Seeing this, Leliana giggled and Charlotte resolved to make the witch see reason about her nonexistent clothes. She had tried, to no avail, to force a series of purchases upon Morrigan, but the woman insisted on her original garments (_What there are of them, _Charlotte thought irritably).

To Charlotte's surprise, Alistair answered before she did. "We came here seeking aid for the Blight, but on our way heard of Eamon's illness and quickened our pace. How is he, Teagan?" The young man sat in a wooden chair, which creaked in protest at the warrior's weight. He possessed a muscular build as it was; with his armor, Charlotte was surprised the chair hadn't simply broken away in pieces. Charlotte sat gingerly in the seat next to him, while Morrigan and Leliana took unobtrusive positions along the walls. Leliana, in particular, seemed to fade into the shadows, her eyes watchful and quick.

Teagan sighed heavily, growing gray-faced again. "I wish I knew, Alistair. That is why I came here; to investigate the source of his illness and watch over Redcliffe until he recovered, but whatever has taken him so ill is a mystery to us. He cannot eat and grows weak, but no medicine or healing seems to touch him. I was forced to travel back to Rainsfere a fortnight ago to see to my own affairs. By the time I returned last week, all communication from the castle had stopped and then…" He trailed off, eyes distant as he saw something the rest of them could not share.

"The undead began their vicious assaults?" The words floated from Morrigan, whose face was calmly interested, her eyes glittering in the soft light. Teagan nodded, his gaze lingering briefly over her before turning to address the others.

"I cannot describe to you the horrors the people of Redcliffe have seen. A veritable army of dead men come down from the castle at night. So many men were killed. I tried to lead them, but they are not fighters and much was lost." His face was drawn, guilt eating away at him as he tried to justify his actions. Charlotte held up one hand.

"We are not here to judge you, Bann Teagan. However, this remains a grave situation. Morrigan, what have you in the way of information about a problem such as this?" All eyes turned to the witch, in varying degrees of interest and hope. Teagan's, however, lingered on the attractive young woman next to Alistair. The shape of her face, tone of voice, her eyes… they were all intensely familiar. Who was she?

Morrigan thought carefully before answering, "Well, twould not be an unreasonable conjecture that the bodies are possessed by demonic spirits. Those too weak to properly exit the Fade will occupy corpses and manipulate them so long as they are able."

"Why?" Alistair inquired, quizzical. Morrigan raised her eyebrows at him.

"As a former Templar, I would expect you to have learned of this in your training. Because spirits and demons wish to experience the corporeal plane and demons will often seek whatever way they can to fully enter it. This is how abominations are born. Surely you know this?"

He shrugged, "In that respect, Morrigan, our education _is _slightly overrated. Templars-in-training are simply told that demons wish to possess the bodies of mages because mages are too susceptible to resist. I've never heard anything about them wearing dead corpses like a nasty suit." Realizing his words may have been insensitive, Alistair cringed with apology at Bann Teagan, but he was too occupied with Morrigan's words to notice.

"So, what are you saying is that it is possible a demon has been unleashed inside the castle? But how?"

Morrigan gave a careless lift of her shoulders, "Are there any mages in the nobleman's employ?"

"Not that I am aware of. This is very strange. I must admit that I am even more puzzled than before. This information will certainly help," he nodded respectfully at Morrigan, who preened slightly in response, "But the fact remains that we are completely ignorant of the evil magic's source. It truly disturbs me."

Charlotte was thinking things over very carefully. If she knew enough about the pattern of most people, she was fairly certain that the Bann would ask for their help in defending the village tonight. And if the numbers she had observed in the yard and chantry were anything to go by, he would need them very much. Charlotte was not unwilling - the greater part of her was inflamed with outrage at the prospect of leaving these people helpless – and yet she had to be practical. This risked her own numbers and there was still a Blight to contend with. How would she feel if saving this village now only meant its destruction by the Darkspawn later? What could they actually risk?

Alistair, however, was far more determined to protect his childhood home and almost spoke out of turn. "We'd like to help you Bann Teagan, in any way we can." The Bann smiled warmly, touched by the gesture.

"Yes, we would." Charlotte agreed distractedly. A conference, however, was in order. "Alistair, let us go back to camp and share this information with the others. Once we have counted those among us willing to engage in this fight, we will return and discuss it further." Alistair was surprised, but Charlotte ignored him and rose to offer a respectful nod to Bann Teagan. Nonplussed, Alistair joined her automatically, searching her face for some sort of explanation for her reserved speech. Just as she rose, commanding the others with that quietly determined manner, Teagan realized who she reminded him off.

Before they left, Bann Teagan cleard his throat. "Young lady, if I may ask you a question?" Charlotte gave her leave, most of her body still turned away to exit the office. "Are you… are you Bryce Cousland's daughter?"

Charlotte froze; truthfully, with all the news of possessed corpses and mysteriously sickened Arls, Charlotte had quite forgotten this man might know her. For the first time since they had met, Leliana saw nervous hesitation in Charlotte and wondered who this Cousland man might be.

"I… Yes. I am Charlotte Cousland." She answered reluctantly, barely meeting the Bann's eyes; his face softened with pity.

"You have my condolences," he murmured, seeming to truly mean it. "What happened… it was cruel. I want you to know that Howe's crime has not gone unnoticed; your parents were beloved among many, despite some of the resentment for their power." Curiously, he glanced at Alistair, then back at Charlotte. "You are now a Grey Warden?"

"Yes," she replied stiffly, trying to keep a hold on her emotions. "I was recruited the night my parents died." Teagan reacted with confusion, "Before the attacks?" He asked. Charlotte glanced at Alistair, warring with herself over her answer. Finally, she said, "No. It was a… condition for my salvation." She dropped her eyes, obviously afraid of their reactions. Alistair stared at her, his entire demeanor shocked. He had not known this. Duncan – Duncan had conscripted her in exchange for her life?

The others were similarly appalled; the silence could not have been thicker. Bann Teagan looked thunderous, while Morrigan's eyes were unusually wide, Leliana standing behind her and wondering what on earth had happened to their thoughtful leader.

"I am… sorry to hear that it happened that way." Bann Teagan answered finally, his tone hard. "I daresay you have risen most admirably to the occasion. I salute you."

Charlotte nodded, mumbling gratitude, then swept quickly from the room. Morrigan and Leliana hurried in her wake, clearly anxious for her. Before Alistair could leave, Teagan grabbed him by the shoulder. "Did you know of this?" he demanded harshly.

The Bann could see from the boy's bewildered expression that he did not and was as equally disturbed by the news as Teagan. Whatever Duncan had been – and Teagan knew him to be generally considered a good man – he had been at times a ruthless and ineffective leader, alternately biding his time when he should have been acting, then being rash when backed into a corner.

"No, I…" Alistair looked utterly lost, the image of this cold act and the man he had so admired clashing in his head. Teagan saw the struggle and softened, transforming his hard grip into a consoling hand.

"It is done, now, Alistair. Whatever the Warden-Commander did in life, let us remember him well in death. Sometimes, we are forced to do things we do not like, when we must accomplish tasks for the greater good." Teagan hoped that Alistair and this young woman would learn this lesson well and become benevolent leaders in the wake of all this madness. Alistair finally looked him in the eye and nodded, unable to speak. Teagan released him and he left, as anxious as the others.

Beyond him, his brother's vassals suffered. Children's cries echoed in the nave, followed by the shushing tone of sisters and those mothers who had survived the attacks. An old woman coughed, her illness tended by a weary Chantry sister who tried to provide comfort with a wet cloth on the woman's forehead. On the opposite side of the chapel, the Revered Mother lead a prayer, her head bent in benediction as she murmured to the group of desperate villagers. Few of them knew how to fight and the militia outside had not been trained to kill undead monsters. What of this misery and hopelessness would be left after tonight's attack?

_Oh Maker, _Teagan prayed silently. _Please guide us onto your path._

* * *

Charlotte clambered towards the hill, the people, trees, and buildings swimming in her vision. She blurred past the men fighting in the yard, one of them staggering back to avoid her as she tore past. Morrigan and Leliana hurried after her.

"Charlotte, wait!" Leliana called, getting a little breathless in her armor. Morrigan added, "Desist! We intend you no harm!"

Charlotte did not heed them; she needed to get away, to hide. Teagan's probing questions had been most unexpected and Charlotte wanted desperately to get a hold on her emotions before anyone else could see them. She hadn't meant to say that last part, about what Duncan did, but it had been eating away at her since that very night. She knew Alistair loved him like a father and Duncan had been kind to her, but he'd also taken any possibility of choice away from her and that was not something she felt she could forgive. Charlotte began to run.

"Blast it!" Morrigan flicked her hand, casting a paralyzing spell that stopped Charlotte in her tracks. Panicked, the young woman's eyes rolled around in her head, frozen in the position of a mid-lope, like some comical statue of a competing athlete. Leliana glowered, her voice chastising, "Morrigan!"

"It will wear off shortly, and now she cannot run anymore." The witch was a little uncertain, but had felt in the moment that was what she was supposed to do. After all, was it not a compatriot's duty to care for others in her contingent? Surely this was better than allowing her to run off and possibly do herself harm, where they could not reach her in time?

The two women caught up at last, just as the spell began to wear off. Charlotte's eyes spoke of murder, so Leliana quickly began talking.

"Don't hurt her, she was trying to help. Even if it was idiotic." Leliana glared at Morrigan again, who scowled back. She transferred her attention to Charlotte, her expression softening as she offered an apology. "I am… sorry. I did not intend to upset you further, only to prevent you from running away." Charlotte, still unable to speak, shot daggers with her eyes, but had already decided to forgive her. Once the spell completely wore off, she poked Morrigan hard in the arm.

"Ouch!" The witch protested, looking upset, ""Of all the-"

"You give some and you get some," Charlotte told her irritably. "If you'd grown up with an older brother you'd understand. Now we're even. Deal?"

Morrigan rubbed her arm, sulking, but finally stuck her chin out in assent. "Deal."

Leliana was concerned, "Are you alright? Is there anything we can do?" Morrigan, who was out of her depth now that she could not cast a spell, said nothing.

It wasn't that Charlotte didn't appreciate the effort – it was just so bloody private that the thought of sharing her most harrowing memories with these two women who were all but strangers made her feel a little sick. Alistair was different; they had almost died together and he'd known from the beginning. Imagining rehashing the entire tale for Leliana and Morrigan… it was just too soon.

Even though she really wasn't, Charlotte took a shaky breath and answered in the affirmative. "I'm fine, I just got upset, but I'm fine now." When she saw they were unconvinced, she insisted. "I'm grateful for your concern, but I…"

Morrigan waved a languid hand, "Do not wish to discuss it. Very well, then, we shall not force you." Leliana bit her lip, clearly wishing she could, but she nodded in agreement and then followed Charlotte slowly back up the path towards the camp, Morrigan slightly ahead and looking bored again. Charlotte did not notice the watchful yellow gaze keeping track of her as they ascended.

Alistair had not yet caught up with them. Morrigan's keen eyes picked up on the templar's absence and she searched Charlotte's face for a sign of emotion. The Warden looked strained, but as if she were rallying, and so Morrigan let her be. _Contemplating his navel, I expect_, Morrigan thought disparagingly. She wished the Templar would have the sense to keep up with them; surely he realized Charlotte would feel responsible?

Alistair had retreated briefly to the other side of the yard, taking refuge in the shade of the Chantry. He watched the exchange between the three women, then followed their progress up the hill. His heart was hammering at this horrible news; had Duncan really done as Charlotte said? Or were these the words of a bitter woman who had lost that which was most precious to her?

He studied Morrigan as she cast a seemingly careless gaze around the yard, then looked at Charlotte's face. _Looking for me. _He thought, feeling a bit guilty. He knew he should be with them, keeping up appearances, but he needed a moment to think. To mull over what this could mean.

Duncan had saved Alistair; had it not been for his recruitment, Alistair would most likely be somewhere else, addicted to lyrium, having been forced to take a full script of vows, leaving him with nothing but his duties. At least as a Grey Warden, he had some semblance of freedom. Despite all the prices that came with it, Alistair would much rather be a Warden than a Templar, spending the remainder of his increasingly lyrium-addled existence under the Chantry's authoritarian thumb. Alistair may dislike Morrigan, but she was not wrong about that. The Chantry was not what it seemed to outsiders. For every kind-hearted priest and Templar, there were ten more fanatics who longed to see mages and sinners burn. Alistair couldn't think like that and to have been forced to live around it… it would have slowly destroyed him.

He felt angry with Charlotte. Who was she compared to Duncan? Just because she had become their leader didn't mean she knew better than Duncan, or that she knew anything at all. Alistair huffed, thinking nasty thoughts about his fellow Grey Warden. After a few moments, he realized it was not helping and tried to burn off the edge of his resentment with distraction, watching the men training in the yard. While some of the militia parried blows from swords, others engaged in target practice, raising their bows and loosing arrows on command. Their aim was fair, but not excellent. Alistair began mentally planning how he would assist their commander in combat training later that day. Because, whether Charlotte deigned to stay or not, he _would _be aiding Redcliffe. Following orders be damned.

That had been his whole sodding life – following orders, listening to others, doing as he was told. Even Duncan had taken advantage of it; Alistair scowled. He'd hated when Duncan would brook no resistance, refuse to listen to what Alistair had to say, and then make him do something he really objected to – like staying out of the battle at Ostagar. Of course, he would be dead then, but still, he had really begun to hate taking other people's orders.

For Charlotte, however, it was a different matter. She'd come from a family that gave the orders. She could have been Queen and ruled over all of Ferelden, if circumstances had been different. Alistair could have been greeting her on the path of life as Cailan's widow. Somehow, that bothered him a great deal more than it should have. Alistair had never felt competitive or envious of his elder brother, except for occasions when he wished for some taste of a father. Now, the thought of Charlotte belonging to Cailan… it made him see red even in a way that finding out about Duncan hadn't.

And that is when it struck him, how _much _Charlotte mattered to him. Even in the short time they had known each other, he had come to care for her a great deal. Did he believe she would lie? No. And she wouldn't misinterpret a situation like that either; she was far too smart for that. Maybe Teagan was right; people do make mistakes - Maker knew Alistair did. If Duncan saw fit to make her a Grey Warden that way, he must have had his reasons. Even if Alistair found he wasn't sure he could agree with them. And maybe, with Alistair's help, Charlotte could come to thrive in this new life. Perhaps fate had intervened and brought her to him, so that he could make her life better, despite what she had been through. Becoming a part of the Grey Wardens had certainly been the best thing to ever happen to him – now he could take that certainty and give it to someone else.

The three women were almost to the top of the hill, about to curl around the crest where dust turned to grass. Having made his decision, Alistair ran after them, splintmail rattling in the sunshine. His heart was still uncertain, but in this duty to Charlotte he found resolve.

* * *

When Alistair returned to camp, Charlotte had already explained the situation to Bodhan, Sten and Mastodon. The latter two were ready to follow wherever she lead; Sten immediately descended into the village to observe the men training and see if he could offer some of his wisdom to these hopeless _Basra_. Leliana began gathering supplies from Bodhan's stores and filling the gaps with Morrigan, who disappeared into the woods to find ingredients for potions and salves they would need. To his credit, the dwarven merchant was only moderately alarmed by the news and offered whatever help he could. After that, of course, he asked where he could stay that would be safe as well as out of the range of combat. Sandal simply stood by their cart, scratching his backside with ignorant bliss. They began to map out a possible location for them to camp.

Charlotte felt a strange scratching in her head and blood; when she turned, she saw Alistair coming around the corner, his face set. Instantly, she felt a wave of hurt; his extrication following the discussion with Teagan had surprised her. She knew he felt strong emotions when it came to Duncan, but she had hoped there was more loyalty between them than what he had displayed, considering Duncan was now dead and she was his comrade and commander. No, that wasn't right – she lead the party by default because Alistair preferred not to, but that didn't make her his commander. They were comrades. Even so, his desertion in that moment hurt, and she abruptly walked away from Bodhan to talk to Leliana so he wouldn't see.

Alistair stopped to squint suspiciously at the goings-on around him. Sten and Morrigan were nowhere to be seen, and Bodhan was packing up camp, Sandal smiling behind him. Leliana and Charlotte stood a little distance away, mulling over a scroll of paper and pointing at the tavern below, before looking at the road around them. Planning their route out, were they? He barreled up to Charlotte.

"So, we're clearing out then?" Alistair tone was aggressive; Leliana stopped mid-sentence, halting her and Charlotte's review of a small list of supplies they might need according to Morrigan's instruction, who had given much consideration to the perils they might face from blood magic and the tireless undead. If her knowledge served her, they would need plenty of health poultices and potions for stamina, as well as some lyrium for Morrigan to be able to spellcast indefinitely and restore her mana. The final potion would be the hardest to acquire. Bodhan had a small store, but lyrium was tightly controlled by the Chantry and therefore not easily available to outsiders. Mages were not supposed to operate beyond the confines of the Circle, after all.

"No and if you would stop sulking for a moment you would see we are actually preparing for battle." Morrigan was even haughtier than usual as she reappeared from the edge of the forest, secretly annoyed he had been so hateful to Charlotte, who had done nothing but soothe the whiny Templar's ill-temper since they began their travels. She was pleased to see he looked sufficiently ashamed of himself; less so to notice Charlotte's stiff back and facial expression, which she took to be indications of Charlotte wounded feelings. Morrigan went to insult him again, but Charlotte cut her off.

"We haven't time enough for that. Alistair," she addressed him coolly, making the senior Grey Warden gulp. "Since you feel so close to this matter, you will go speak with Teagan and find out what we need to do. Once that is done, we will meet you in the village and begin to work. Sten is already with the militia, training. Mastodon," Charlotte turned to the hound, her tone softening slightly. "I want you to continue to guard Bodhan. He is going to camp a little outside the village, away from the road. There is a tavern in front of the site, so you won't be near bandit territory, but I don't want to leave him or Sandal unprotected. Understood?" The dog barked once, standing to attention and then joining the dwarves by their cart. When Sandal realized the dog was with him, he clapped his hands and laughed eagerly, wiggling his digits at Mastodon for a pet. The hound considered the tiny pack member briefly, before allowing the spot where his flank and back joined to be petted, as it seemed to be the easiest for the dwarf to reach. When Sandal stroked both hands along his back, the dog sighed happily.

"Good. Let us go to the tavern and see if they have more potions and supplies. Like food." Charlotte's stomach growled like a rampaging Mabari; would she ever get used to this Grey Warden appetite? Leliana giggled at her, nudging her shoulder affectionately before taking her arm. Morrigan cast one more contemptuous glare at Alistair before joining them, her chin raised proudly.

Alistair raised his hand to say something, but Charlotte left without a backward glance and he watched disconsolately after her, certain he had now doomed himself out of her favor. He felt both ashamed and a little annoyed that she couldn't understand his own feelings. Yet again, it seemed they didn't matter. Sighing fitfully, he turned heel and descended back into the village, trying not to kick rocks churlishly along the way.

* * *

"LOOSE!"

A shower of arrows descended on the corpses tumbling down the hill. Those whose bones were shattered away from their connecting joints fell in pieces on the ground. The others merely continued, waving weapons and moaning, their claw-like fingers tearing at what was left of their own flesh.

Charlotte panted, running back to get into position. This battle felt like a nightmare; the sky was as black as pitch and had once glittered with stars. Now, a putrid green smoke billowed from the castle above, tainting the air with the stench of decay and something that Charlotte worried was poison. Behind her was Ser Perth, the knight-commander of Arl Eamon's garrison, and what was left of his men. Most of them had not yet returned from their quest seeking Andraste's ashes. Charlotte silently cursed Brother Genitivi and the crazy fanaticism of Arlessa Isolde.

They waited until most of the corpses were in position, stumbling like drunks along the path. One lolled behind the others, the bottom half of its jaw disconnected, dragging a large axe along the ground as if it were too heavy to lift. Most of the corpses wore armor, some the clothing of a servant. They seemed aggressive but confused faced with the skill of real soldiers. As they ambled towards them, the others hesitated, wondering if they would charge. Charlotte decided she would honestly prefer not to find out.

"MORRIGAN!" Charlotte's command came just as their possessed enemies reach the bottom of the path, where it flattened into a wide circle for the village's windmill. The witch cast an enormous ball of fire that lit the night as it exploded upon impact, setting alight the barrels of oil Leliana had discovered in the village general store. The corpses nearest disintegrated under the flames, while others now capered mindlessly, waving their arms around as they tried to simultaneously engage the fighters and put out their burning limbs.

Ser Perth and his knights dove into the fray, issuing loud battle cries that rang in Charlotte's ears. She fought alongside them, cutting down a skeleton that must have been dead for days, its flesh already desiccated and clinging on in strips along the bone. Morrigan's laughter soared above the chaos, her ice freezing a line of the undead, where Alistair bashed them down with his shield, scattering them into pieces.

Leliana and Sten were below, commanding a line of defense in front of the chantry with Redcliffe's burly Mayor, Murdock, he of the impressive mustache. With the help of Sten and Alistair, the militia had received comprehensive – albeit extremely hurried – training in basic battle tactics. Murdock had been rather impressed, eyes wide above his hooked nose and copious facial hair as he took in the progress of his men. With them waited a surly dwarven mercenary who Charlotte had very nearly threatened into the fight, flanked by two lackeys who scowled menacingly into the darkness, hands wringing impatiently on the hilts of their swords.

The greater part of the force that charged down the hill was now spent; Charlotte felt a stirring of unease. After the harrowing battles of the last two nights, this was it? Morrigan joined her side, quickly drinking a small vial of lyrium potion to rally her stores of magical energy.

"Where are the rest?" Alistair jogged up to them, his face sweaty, shield at front. Charlotte shrugged, equally confused. At Morrigan's behest, Charlotte downed some stamina draught to give herself energy. It tasted pleasant at first, all sunny like lemons, then left an acrid back-taste that curdled Charlotte's expression. Its effects were almost immediate, however, and Charlotte breathed a little easier, her daggers less heavy and muscles regaining vigor.

The knights, Charlotte, and her companions looked around, senses seeking the signs of trouble. They were all startled by a garbled cry that echoed from the village, followed by the sounds of further shouting and metal swinging through cool air.

"HELP! HELP! They're coming from the lake!" A man screamed from the bottom of the hill. Without hesitation, Charlotte swiveled and ran down, eyes peeled for pitfalls in the dark.

She could hear Alistair and Morrigan behind her. The witch's energy began to crackle as she summoned power from the Fade and an enormous spell of force descended on the corpses screeching by the stilt houses and the pier. The kind of numbers Charlotte had originally been expecting poured from the lake, gnashing their teeth and posturing aggressively, bones cracking as they lashed into the frightened crowd. To Charlotte's relief, the militia seemed to regain a sense of purpose in short order and attacked, gaining strength from Leliana's voice calling to them from the steps of the Chantry.

"FIGHT! FIGHT THEM BACK!"

Alistair and Charlotte parted and ran the perimeter around the men, Charlotte taking down stragglers who threatened the militia from behind. Leliana fired arrow after arrow from her perch, hitting with deadly accuracy that sent the possessed corpses flying, their bones shattering into a mess all over the ground.

"No fire!" Charlotte reeled past Morrigan, who was readying a ball of flame between her hands. The witch was briefly irritable, but her eyes took in the wooden stilt houses and pier, and she extinguished the ball, exchanging it for a wave of electricity that she cast into a cluster of enemies, who froze as the shock coursed through them, then fell in a steaming pile of bone.

Bann Teagan was fighting with them, wearing armor he had borrowed from one of the dead Templars that defended the Chantry the night before. He was rather skilled with a Greatsword, fighting back-to-back with Sten, who grunted as he beheaded a line of skeletons. Alistair was in the middle of the bedlam, shouting loudly to rally the men and bashing down corpse after corpse with his shield. Charlotte briefly missed Mastodon, thinking how much fun he would have had taking apart the corpses' bones.

"LOOK OUT!"

Charlotte turned on her heel, shocked to find an enormous maul poised over her head. Alistair appeared with his shield, shoving her behind him and taking the brunt of the force. Grunting in pain, he reared up, pushing the corpse back and bringing his blade down on its head. The skull parted with a sickening _crack_ and Alistair kicked the torso away, standing defensively in front of Charlotte.

"Are you alright?" His eyes glittered with the fire still burning on the hill; he was pouring with sweat.

"Yes." Charlotte did not know how to thank him, still confounded by the near miss of her head being crushed in.

Alistair nodded, then ran off to help the other men, raising his sword in the air. Charlotte shook herself and joined him, diving in alongside the militia and Ser Perth, who was trying to hold the line near the edge of the lake.

An hour later, the last body fell, and the men were exhausted. It was well past midnight; the fire near the windmill had been put out by Morrigan's careful combination of an ice and wind spell so as to prevent the destruction of the windmill and village below. Four of the militia had died, overrun by corpses. Considering the staggering numbers of the dead before this night, Murdock and Teagan couldn't have been happier.

Owen, the blacksmith, had joined the fight at some point, drunk out of his head and shouting. Charlotte had even seen him take an inconspicuous swig between opponents, face determined under his beard. Now, he sat in a cross-eyed heap on the Chantry's steps, being patted enthusiastically on the back by some of the militia, who were thanking him for repairing their weapons. Dwynn, the dwarven mercenary, gave her a resentful glare as he sheathed his weapons and strolled towards the pier to inspect the damage, evidently concerned for his abode, lackeys in tow. As the fallen were carried away to the pyre where the others would be burned, Teagan came to Charlotte and Alistair, exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure. Closely behind him trailed Murdock, an actual grin appearing on the normally surly face.

"Thank you, thank you to the ends of Thedas. You saved the village." Murdock pumped Charlotte's hand while Teagan clapped Alistair on the shoulders.

Sten and Leliana joined them, the lay sister looking dizzier than usual, her hair a mussed halo around her face. Sten scowled, but did not seem displeased and hovered in the background, violet eyes searching their surroundings for any lingering threat. Alistair addressed Teagan.

"We need to get into the castle between attacks, while we know it is going to be quiet. We need to find out what has happened to Arl Eamon."

Teagan nodded, his face white under the sweat. Evidently, he was _not _a man accustomed to this kind of exercise. "Yes, but we need rest first. This has been a very long night, and I would wager it will be safer by day, as they never attack then. Perhaps the evil power which started this goes into a kind of sleep by daylight."

Morrigan did not agree, but said nothing. She could tell her comrades were exhausted and to invade the castle rashly could only mean their demise, so she kept her peace. Hopefully, the demon within the castle would be content to bide its time.

Murdock agreed with Teagan. "Let us go into the Chantry and inform the others it is safe. They deserve to celebrate, as do we. I think there might even be some ale. Bella always took good care of the militia."

Alistair smiled happily at Charlotte, boyish in his relief. Their earlier disagreement forgotten, she grinned back and patted him on the arm. Murdock approached the Chantry doors and gave a hearty knock, signaling all was clear. There was a frantic scrambling, then the doors were heaved open, allowing everyone to pile into the Chantry. Those who had taken refuge inside stared in astonishment at the piles of bones in the yard and the remaining numbers of their men. Women cried and wrapped themselves around husbands and brothers, fathers and sons. Charlotte and her group hesitated by the doors, trying to give room to the villagers to celebrate. When they saw them there, a great wave of triumphant cries poured over them, hands reaching out to pull them all in, as well as hand them a few tankards of golden ale.


	19. People Will Talk

The following morning brought burning pyres and prayer. Bann Teagan spoke of the heroism of Charlotte and Alistair, the last two Grey Wardens in all of Ferelden who chose to pause in their "tireless" search for aid against the Blight to save the villagers from Redcliffe castle's undead threat. The news of Loghain's declaration against them had not yet reached Redcliffe amidst their own trouble and strife. Teagan's rousing speech of support for the Grey Wardens, as well as his brief condemnation of Loghain, was enough to seal the loyalty of Redcliffe's citizens to Charlotte and Alistair. Three shouts of "Hail!" were offered by the militia, then all of those who survived were led in a prayer by the Revered Mother, who seemed to have finally grown somewhat comfortable with Charlotte and her group of companions, despite her initial reservations. She had been the only sour face amidst the revelry of the evening before, worried that Charlotte would seek a reward from the village that they could not afford. Charlotte had restrained herself from being rude to the old lady and simply telling her that, now that they were not in immediate danger, she couldn't care less what they did as long as they didn't turn her in to Loghain. Teagan, much more likeable than his ailing brother, in Charlotte's opinion, had the sense to pursue the only useful boon the villagers of Redcliffe could offer to the Grey Wardens: unwavering support and protection.

By the time the funeral rites had been completed, it was noon. Teagan asked Charlotte, Leliana, and Alistair to meet him at the windmill in an hour to try and gain entry to the castle. Charlotte wondered why he wanted to meet at the windmill, but was preempted by the Bann. "I will explain about that once we are there together. For now, I must do the rounds with the remaining families. Whatever they face in terms of rebuilding materials and costs should be brought to my brother as soon as possible." His expression darkened, "And if he cannot do anything to aid them, then it will be my responsibility to seek whatever help I can immediately."

Teagan went to join the Revered Mother and Murdock among the stilt houses and shops on the pier, taking stock of what had been damaged, lost, or needed repair. Charlotte and Alistair began to lead Leliana and Mastodon away when the Mabari was stopped by a group of fascinated villagers.

Mastodon had been received by Redcliffe with much admiration; most of the people there were farmers and fisherman, catching small schools of Calenhad Carp and growing crops of wheat and barley, which they dried, baked, and stored to eat throughout the winter. There weren't many who could afford a Mabari, and few to none who could justify the expense. Men and women understood his prowess as a warrior and asked many questions, particularly concerned with whether he had participated in the big fight against the undead abominations. Those children who had survived the terrors of the last few days hung back, peeping from behind the legs of their chattering mothers, as they whispered and giggled about the magnificent hound who stood and watched them, one ear quirked curiously. When a little boy had finally brazened his way up to Charlotte's life-long companion, Mastodon had given her a look as if to say: _They really don't know what they're doing, do they? _The little boy looked tentatively into the hound's face, trembling in excitement. When Mastodon whined, the boy asked Charlotte what to do. Charlotte patiently instructed him in the art of ear-stroking, her heart twisting as she was reminded of similar times spent with Oren. The mothers behind them clung to the other small ones, whispering for them to move forward as well, trusting Charlotte's word that Mastodon was safe.

"Stroke his ears, just like that." Charlotte smiled at the little boy, his mop of golden hair gleaming in the sunlight. He reached out his hand with painstaking slowness, observing Mastodon's expression carefully. The hound sat stock-still, eyes somber, patiently reassuring the children that he was friendly with a wag of his stubby tail. When the boy patted him on the head, Mastodon chuffed and nudged his hand with his nose, urging him closer.

"Go on, Eldrik, he won't hurt you!" The boy's mother called from the group of women resting on the steps of the Chantry. Eldrik stepped closer, some of the other children tottering eagerly in his wake.

Twenty minutes later, Charlotte had to peel the hound away from the crowd of children, all squealing in delight as he offered them short rides on his back around the yard and licked slobber all over the faces, his velvety lips split into a huge grin. "You old softy," she chided, poking him on his snout. He snorted, shaking his coat with dignity. "Mastodon's right," Alistair admonished her, trying to stifle his own grin. "He's not a softy – he's a _wardog _softy." Mastodon barked and pawed at Alistair, who laughed in response.

Leliana had hovered nearby, observing the events of Mastodon's growing popularity with amusement. Everyone felt a sense of relief that they had been able to save the village, despite the staggering task that still lay before them. They were reluctant to return to the reality of Eamon's illness and the armies they had to build, but made their way back up to camp to alert the others of their mission to reach Arl Eamon and discover what had become of him. Sten and Morrigan had remained at camp, preferring not to alarm the villagers any further (they had both received a wide berth at the previous evening's celebrations), as well as to avoid the rituals of what they felt to be a dogmatic religious order. Charlotte also suspected that Morrigan wished for some time alone to fawn over her face and hair. With the Darkspawn heavy on her mind the possibility of death around every corner, Charlotte could not imagine where the witch found time for such luxuries. She could only hope that when they reached Arl Eamon, whatever held him hostage could be quickly dispatched and their mission against the Darkspawn moved forward in short order. Whatever lay before them would not fare better if she lined her eyes with kohl or brushed her hair. She sighed, _That will make mother so happy, to watch me from the Maker's side, going through life with a dirty face and tangled hair. Sorry, Mother. _It pleased her that she could think this with considerably less pain and some actual humor. Perhaps if she allowed her family to participate in her thoughts and feelings, they could still be a part of her life, even from the home of the Maker.

"What is our objective?" Sten rose from where he had been meditating next to the fire, impatient to accomplish the next task. Bodhan was nearby, cheerfully humming to himself while he took stock of his wares, having traded with some of the local shops and the blacksmith, who had emerged from the village forge squinting like a mole earlier that morning – his aversion to sunlight no doubt the sad effect of a veritable ocean of whiskey and ale.

"Hello Miss! And what a fine morning! When would you expect us to be taking our leave?" Bodhan seemed not to have heard Sten's question and rolled up his scroll, smile huge underneath his braided beard.

"Not for some time, I'm afraid. We have to meet the Bann to try and find a way into the castle." Charlotte gratefully accepted a fresh waterskin from Sandal, who wobbled off to fetch the others he had filled for Alistair and Leliana. Morrigan emerged gracefully from behind the cart where she had been arranging a series of flowers and herbs she picked to make potions. Stowing them carefully away in a pouch at her waist, she joined Sten and inquired, "And so it begins again. Which of us will you require to assist you? I assume I am among them, considering the presence of abominations." She placed one hand on her hip, looking bored. Charlotte suppressed a sigh.

"Yes, we will need your expertise, Morrigan. Sten, you are most welcome to join us. Maker only knows what will be in there, _if_ we manage to get in, and I'd rather not be short on numbers. Bodhan, could you move into the village proper for now so we can take our entire force for good measure?" The dwarf cheerfully agreed. "Oh yes, mistress! I mean, Warden-Commander, excuse me! Me and my boy will do just fine. Maybe we can even peddle some wares!" The merchant began preparing his cart, chattering to a happy Sandal. Charlotte heard the younger dwarf exclaim, "Enchantment!" while bending to retrieve the corner of canvas they used to secure the top of the cart.

"Wonderful. I have absolutely no idea what we are walking into, so what precautions do you suggest, Morrigan?" The witch preened to be the center of attention; Alistair scowled when he saw her enjoyment and crossed his arms, irritated. Leliana pressed her lips together disapprovingly, but said nothing. Sten was oblivious, focusing entirely on the witch's input and awaiting his orders. When Charlotte looked at Mastodon to see what he was doing, he panted and then began sniffing at his tail. Lovely.

"Well, I would wager there are more of the hideous undead, as well as some lower-level demons. I know not how you would classify them according to Chantry lore, but they are not overly powerful, only drawn to places where the Veil is thin or torn and dangerous if taken on alone."

"So we should gather in groups against these opponents?" Alistair pressed, working to keep his impatience with Morrigan in check. She leered briefly, then suppressed the urge to irk him and nodded, "Indeed."

Charlotte almost smiled to see them trying to work together. She was so pleased that they might finally get over –

"And of course, Templar, they will be very drawn to you. They're attracted to _empty _vessels." She smirked beautifully, the appeal of her full lips contrasting starkly with her unbecoming words. Alistair glared at her, then rearranged his face into an expression of hammy woe.

"Oh! You've hurt my manly feelings!" He assumed a bored expression, his tone becoming dry. "All one of them." Leliana giggled.

"Alright, alright. Let's go." Charlotte was prickly with impatience. She was not excited to face more demons and the incarnations thereof; any more of this foolishness and she would lose her temper. The Arl might be dead, for Maker's sake! Alistair realized his mistake and looked worried and apologetic; Charlotte softened.

"I'm sure he will be alright, Alistair. Whatever is in there, we'll do our best to save him." She murmured comfort as they descended the hill to meet Bann Teagan. Sten and Morrigan traveled at the back, while Leliana kept a respectful distance from her and Alistair, trying to allow them some modicum of privacy.

"I hope you're right," he looked sadly at the others, lowering his voice further. "If he dies, Charlotte, I'll have no one left…." He choked into silence, clearly emotional. Charlotte discreetly squeezed his shoulder, while Mastodon bumped his head on Alistair's opposite hand, chuffing encouragement. Alistair smiled weakly, then nodded and rolled his shoulders, trying to look strongly ahead of them as the windmill loomed over the curve of the hill.

* * *

The shadows melted with blue moonlight as Zevran slithered his way along the walls of Denerim's market square, asleep for the night, his eyes and ears alert for even the smallest breath of danger. His superior elven hearing and sight set him apart as an assassin; for him, the night was a willing mistress, sharing her best secrets as she unfolded the cloth of her darkness to reveal shape, detail, and light. She guided him to his prize.

The guard was waiting just as Master Ignacio had promised. With three hard knocks, they were admitted to the palace by a nervous elven servant, then led through a series of underground halls that opened into servant's quarters - now quiet, with the day's work done. The guard took over from there, the elven servant hurrying away to her quarters, clutching one silver in her delicate hand. The young man in front of Zevran had the stink of someone new to the nefarious – a sweaty recruit who had evidently turned some corners to make extra coin off the corruption of his betters. Zevran was unsurprised; most people found ways to benefit from those around them, even it if meant hurting others. They made their way through the castle, taking smaller, back hallways obviously intended for the traffic of servants throughout the day where they could reach the royal apartments and guest quarters with expedience and invisibility. For Zevran, it was an unknown maze, no hallway more distinctive than the next. In Antiva, the set-up for royalty was lavish to the extreme, with announcements of importance littering every corridor long before you reached the final chamber. Here, it seemed more evenly divided, simpler in taste. He nearly chuckled, both at once condescending of and charmed by the diffident style of Ferelden.

The final door was reached; it was an entrance that allowed easy access to the fire grate and table, where the guest would receive his breakfast in the morning. For now, two men on the other end of the room engaged in deep conversation, one seated in the shadows, the other with his back to the fire, his velvet doublet lit with a shock of orange from the burning flames. When they heard the guard's clomping footsteps – Zevran's ghosted across the wooden floor boards, as light as a feather – the standing man turned, his face contorted with displeasure.

"Leave," he commanded curtly. The guard bowed and quickly exited, the sounds of shifting chainmail echoing off the silent halls until the rattles dissolved into nothing.

Zevran remained where he was, shrouded in shadow, observing the two men for threats before proceeding.

"Come closer," the man who spoke had short grey hair and a prominent nose, with beady eyes and an unfriendly expression. A bully, Zevran decided, asserting his authority and importance with far too much panoply. The man behind him was the one in command, though he said nothing. His dark figure crouched in the chair and Zevran could feel his piercing gaze, even though the darkness on that side of the room revealed no eyes.

"The Crows send their regards," Zevran swept into an elaborate bow before standing fully, eyes sliding briefly to the man in the chair and then back again to the rat-faced bully. As if he could read Zevran's mind, the bully scowled.

"You have been called to eliminate a great threat to the kingdom," he snapped, already displeased. "It is paramount that these individuals are dealt with at once."

The man approached the polished mahogany table and snatched up two pieces of parchment, offering them to Zevran, who accepted them with a polite nod. He noted with stiff irritation that the man carefully avoided Zevran's touch and when Zevran looked at the papers, he did not miss the man's sneer as he stared at the elf's pointed ears.

The drawings were not as crude as he expected, obviously done with care. The man was handsome, the woman pretty, both wearing armor and malicious expressions. He presumed that these would be used as wanted posters, should the need arise.

"And who will I have the pleasure of meeting?" Zevran inquired, folding the papers and stowing them under his cloak.

"Grey Wardens," the seated man – presumably the King – answered in a rough timbre that reminded Zevran of a wolf's growl. He had not seen many in his travels, but remembered one distinctly from a carnival in Antiva, where the animal was baited to growl and snap for the entertainment of delighted crowds. "They are traitors to the Crown."

Zevran wondered then, why the King had not exacted royal justice upon them through more public avenues, but no matter. He was, after all, not paid to ask questions. With another flourish and a bow, he offered his promise and farewell.

"_Buono_, _Signore. _It is done."

* * *

Charlotte blinked, utterly disbelieving of the gruesome scene unfolding before her.

Teagan was dancing – no, capering like a mad-man, on the dais of the castle's main hall. His face was stretched into a ghastly leer, so painfully cheerful that Charlotte wondered if his skin might crack.

Beside him stood a miserable Arlessa Isolde and a small boy Charlotte knew was Connor, the son of Arl Eamon. His face was contorted into an expression of inhuman pleasure, his little hands clapping to encourage his uncle's performance. Teagan danced with the disjointed incoordination of a puppet on strings, his arms and legs jerking unnaturally as they attempted to meet the demands of the possessed little boy commanding them. As his dance came to a close, he did a whirl and a tap, spreading his arms wide to receive applause. Connor obliged him with enthusiasm, the laughter of a boy echoing in tandem with the deep voice of a demon, creating an unsettling timbre that bounced off every stone wall in the castle.

She had known this was going to be a bad idea.

When they had gone to meet Teagan at the windmill - which, incidentally, concealed a secret entrance into the castle – Arlessa Isolde had appeared, running breathlessly down the hill. Her dress was dirty, face haggard. She ran straight to Teagan, who looked upon her in astonishment, momentarily struck speechless by this completely unexpected development.

"Isolde! By the Maker, you're alive!" Teagan accepted her hands automatically as she clutched at him, heaving to catch her breath and ignoring the others.

"Tee-gahn!" The Orlesian accent whined in Charlotte's ears. "Oh, thank the Maker! Please, you must come wiz me to ze castle! You must 'elp Connor!" She tugged desperately at him, blue eyes wide. Charlotte smelled the beginnings of a very poor performance.

"I beg your pardon," she interjected, her tone coolly brisk, "But the Bann is going nowhere until we've heard some sort of an explanation." The Arlessa's head whipped around, her face whitening in outrage.

"Who… How _dare_ you? Who iz zis woman Tee-gahn?!" Isolde tugged on her brother-in-law's hands, trying to draw him closer, her face twisting when he did not come willingly as before.

"She is a Grey Warden and a hero, Isolde. She and her comrades saved the village from the demon's vicious assaults."

If possible, the Arlessa went even whiter. "You… Demon?" She whispered. Behind Charlotte, Morrigan snorted. Alistair and Charlotte exchanged suspicious glares.

Changing tack, the Arlessa released Bann Teagan and turned to the others, her expression contrite. "I apologize, I am just so worried for my Connor. The castle… you have not seen…" Her voice trailed off, one delicate hand coming to rest sorrowfully on her breast. Charlotte was not convinced; Alistair cleared his throat.

"Hello, Arlessa." His voice was soft, a little hesitant. "Do you remember me?" He stepped forward beside Charlotte; she could see the vulnerability in his eyes.

Arlessa Isolde's disconsolate condition abruptly ceased, replaced with a kind of furious horror. "What! Alistair? What are you doing 'ere?!"

Alistair shifted on his feet, obviously discomfited by her poor reaction. "I'm a Grey Warden."

Arlessa Isolde looked frustrated; she stared first at Alistair, then glared at Charlotte, then looked at Teagan. Her furtive calculations betrayed the characteristics of someone whose plans had been foiled and were now considering chewing off their own leg to escape a trap.

"Nevermind!" She decided finally, waving one imperious hand. "Tee-gahn, you _must _come to ze castle with me! We must save Connor!"

"What has happened?" Charlotte demanded, her tone unyielding. Isolde's expression wrinkled briefly, then cleared. She drew herself up, placing one fist on her chest in a dramatic declaration. "Zere is a demon in the castle, unleashed by an apostate who poisoned my 'usband!" Teagan and Alistair looked flabbergasted. Leliana and Morrigan both remained dubious, Leliana particularly studying Isolde's theatrics with a critical eye.

"You will pardon me, my lady," Charlotte said firmly, "If we will require more of an explanation before relinquishing the one person who has kept the village together in your husband's absence."

Isolde emitted an irritated cry, "You do not understand! We are wasting time! I could not get away for long. The demon…" She turned back to the Bann, "Tee-gahn, please, you must believe me. The demon, it holds Connor's life in its hands. I could only convince it to let me get away for a short time! If we do not go back, it will kill Connor!" Pretty tears glittered in the blue eyes; Isolde had obviously once been a very attractive woman. Stress and fear had contorted her features, tingeing her attempts to be an alluring damsel in distress with a kind of desperation. When Teagan looked into Charlotte's eyes, she knew he was suspicious, but had decided to play along.

"Very well, Isolde. I will follow you, but please wait ahead. I must give instructions to Warden Charlotte for the village."

Isolde smiled beatifically, clutching his hands in grateful relief. "Oh! Thank you! Thank you! Please, 'urry as fast as you can!" Isolde rushed back to the gates, obviously eager to be within their sights to reassure the creature lurking watchfully in the castle. Once she was out of earshot, Teagan offered whispered instructions to use his signet ring to unlock the castle's secret entrance in the windmill.

"Follow me in once we are out of sight. Be cautious." He squeezed Alistair's shoulder, "We will forever be in debt to the Ferelden Grey Wardens – this, I swear."

Now, as Charlotte watched a little boy who'd accidentally made a deal with a demon, she could only agree that the Eamon brothers had bloody well better honor their end of the bargain.

* * *

"There is no other way?" Charlotte asked tiredly, her shoulder throbbing where a possessed suit of armor had bashed it with its shield. It seemed her days could only improve – or worsen beyond imagining – from this point forward.

Jowan, an apostate who had been exiled from the Circle for blood magic, cowered fearfully under their collective gaze, his face spattered with his own dried blood. After Isolde had discovered he was poisoning Eamon, she had imprisoned him in the dungeons. When Connor became possessed, she had tortured him for information. Now, relieved not to be under the threat of hot steel, he gave it away.

"Connor made a deal with a desire demon to keep his father alive. I tried to warn him when we were in our lessons about approaching demons while he slept, but Connor is a very new mage and he has a strong talent. It would be easy for someone so young so mistake a demon for a friend."

"Then take it out of him!" Isolde nearly screeched, covering her face with her hands. Teagan tried to pat her shoulder, murmuring comfort. Jowan winced, twisting his hands. "The only way to remove the demon without killing him is to send someone into the Fade. And that requires power – either through lyrium or…. Blood." Jowan looked nervously at Alistair, who had used his Templar training to drain the mage's mana when Charlotte had ordered him removed from the dungeon to assist with Connor's possession. To his credit, Alistair remained impassive, betraying his distaste for the suggestion of blood magic only through a slight twitch in his jaw. Morrigan scoffed.

"Twould require _all _of it, in fact. Someone would have to die either way, you cretin." She glared in disappointment at Jowan; it turned out Morrigan had absolutely no respect for blood mages, declaring it "weak" to resort to such measures. Charlotte liked her that much better for her opinion.

"Then let it be my blood! Save Connor!" Isolde was almost delirious. Despite being pale and shaken, Teagan took her firmly in hand, shushing Isolde to be quiet. "Eamon would _never _allow that, Isolde. Do not even suggest it!"

"But my Connor-"

"Would have been far better off sent to train among his own kind, rather than sheltered ineffectively by his non-magical mother." Sten interrupted dismissively. "You should have allowed him to fulfill his role; instead, you have violated the order and now there is chaos. It is predictable and irritating." Charlotte watched in quiet satisfaction as Isolde stood with her mouth open, unable to reply.

"I do not trust this man," Leliana agreed, indicating Jowan. "We should not take his word for it, but seek the help of another. Perhaps it would be best to go to the Circle of Magi." Alistair nodded, "I also would like a second opinion. Protecting Connor is very important – but, if we can avoid anyone dying in the process, that would be better."

Sten said nothing in response to this suggestion, his eyes trained on Jowan as he stood at the back of the room. He and Mastodon had fought together like old comrades, taking down most of the possessed corpses they encountered in the castle by themselves. Sten's massive form had been particularly effective against those suits of armor, who had come alive shortly after Connor caught sight of Charlotte and the others. The demon did not want to be removed from its new human perch in the corporeal world. That by itself presented another problem: if they managed to exorcise the demon, would it kill the Arl?

"Morrigan," Charlotte said, everyone turning to look at her. "If we manage to expel the demon, what will happen to the Arl of Redcliffe?" Isolde moaned pitifully into Teagan's doublet and Charlotte longed to slap her; she could see from Teagan's expression he was not far behind her in sentiment.

"I do not know," Morrigan replied carelessly. "He could die or live – without knowledge of the poison that ails him, I cannot say if the demon's powers are necessary to sustain his body."

"Thank you, Morrigan, for reminding me why I don't like you." Alistair spat. "He is a _man_, not a _body_ and there are people who care about him. Know _that_." Before Morrigan could retort, she caught the look in Charlotte's eyes and went silent.

Jowan tentatively asserted himself back into the conversation, "If I may, the Circle is not far from here and it would be best if we could secure the help of more mages to perform the ritual. I will await my sentence patiently; I know I must pay for what I have done." His expression was pained – he seemed genuinely remorseful and Charlotte felt a small twist of pity.

"You foul traitor!" Isolde spat at the mage, her face distorted with rage. "You did this to my Connor! You poisoned my 'usband! You will pay!" She suddenly tore away from Bann Teagan and slapped Jowan across the face. Charlotte intervened.

"That's enough! Justice is not torture!" She pushed the Arlessa back, taking a defensive stance in front of Jowan, who clutched his face and did not make any effort to protect himself. Isolde glared balefully, but went silent, folding back against an irritated Teagan, who kept her a fair distance from his person while also restraining her from further hysterics.

"Alistair, help me escort Jowan back to the dungeon," Charlotte ordered. The other Grey Warden joined her on Jowan's opposite side and the two marched him back through the tunnels underneath Recliffe castle, Alistair keeping a watchful eye on Jowan the whole way.

Once they reached the cell where Jowan had been imprisoned over a week before, the three sets of footsteps halted, and Charlotte stopped Jowan gently on the shoulder. She reached into her pack and pulled out a handkerchief, which she dampened from her waterskin.

"Hold still," she said gently. Cupping his cheek, she wiped the blood away and checked his injuries, taking particular care not to hurt him. Alistair almost objected, but the poor sod had no mana to attack with and Charlotte would take him down in a second if he tried anything else, so he remained vigilant, both feeling warmth for Charlotte's tenderness and irritation for the unnecessary risk.

After spreading some Elfroot poultice on his wounds, Charlotte handed him the food she had kept in her pack, despite the fact that her own stomach was loudly protesting the loss of a much-needed meal. Considering how much she had eaten that morning – it had felt indecent to consume so much food right before a funeral – she felt it was a fair sacrifice for a man who might die soon. Jowan accepted her care with silent astonishment, tears glittering in his eyes as he studied the bread and jerky she had handed him.

"Thank you," he whispered. "I… don't deserve your kindness." Alistair agreed, but said nothing.

"Anyone who is truly penitent for something they've done wrong is not beyond hope." Charlotte replied crisply. "Whatever your fate, I believe you feel contrition for your actions."

He smiled bleakly, "Thank you, my lady. You humble me."

He went willingly into the cell, clutching the food with awkward care, as if he did not want to eat such a precious gift. Before they left, Jowan approached the bars, grabbing them with one hand. "I thought I was doing the right thing."

Charlotte and Alistair stopped, surprised at his words. Hesitantly, he continued. "I thought…. Well, I was hired to poison the Arl. I was told he was dangerous."

"By whom?" Alistair demanded.

Jowan gulped before answering, "Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir."

Suddenly, Alistair was very close to Jowan's face, one hand reaching through the bars and grasping him by the collar. "What did you just say?"

* * *

Zevran swirled the golden liquid in his glass, capturing pieces of light in a fractured dance, which flittered like teasing ballerinas over the polished wooden bar. He had been listening carefully for almost two hours to several conversations around him, keeping track of trouble and wondering whom to pick for this tricky mission. Master Ignacio had offered him the assistance of three cells based here in Denerim. Each was composed of about five assassins, all trained by the Crows, but all unfortunately new to the trade or not the best in their class, which was why they were not in Antiva. He had reviewed the few pieces of information he had been able to glean from Ignacio about their backgrounds and found nothing that distinguished any above the others. He drank the remainders of his brandy, feeling the scorch of the alcohol slide down his throat, annoyed that he had so little time to test them before embarking on this long road trip to kill two trained and dangerous fighters. With an irritable flick, he tossed another coin on the bar and gestured for a second drink; the barmaid's eyes lit up at the sight of his elven beauty and the prospect of her feminine attentions calmed him somewhat.

Just as the wench went to fetch his drink, a cool hand picked up the silver dropped onto the wood, its metal scraping against the grain and chiming before it was turned casually between slim, deft fingers.

Without hesitation, Zevran placed a dagger at the woman's waist, his expression amused. "My lady, I suggest you find your next coin at the other end of the bar." He pressed the blade a little to make his intentions clear.

The woman, to his surprise, smirked, entirely nonchalant in the face of his threat. "_Buon Giorgno_, _Signore, _my name is Lily. I expect the Master has mentioned me?" She placed the silver back on the bar with a _clack, _sliding it towards Zevran, who handed it to the wench holding his fresh drink. Zevran withdrew his dagger and sheathed it, accepting the brandy with a nod, indicating that the barmaid should serve Lily as well as he added a copper next to the silver in her hand. Lily ordered a glass of white wine and smiled at Zevran again, her crystalline-blue eyes dancing. This seemed promising.

She was Ferelden, but spoke Antivan well. How had a flower of the Dog Lords come be trained in his fair city? "Lily – what a lovely name." Zevran leaned solicitously forward, making his smile wide and charming. "I am afraid that the Master did not bring you to my attention. Had he done so, I am sure this conversation would be going very differently."

She chortled, sipping her wine with ease. "I have no doubt. The legends of the _Ombre della Morte_ are many, including his ways with women… and men." She saluted him with her glass, taking another swig in his honor. He dipped a languid finger in his glass, swirling the warm liquid as he also melted his eyes in a come-hither stare. "Ah, but my reputation has proceeded me yet again. And so to what do I owe the pleasure?" Lily leaned forward, parting her lips ever so slightly. Her shining golden hair fell in a thick curtain from her shoulders, wafting the scents of lavender and mint. She had creamy skin and a long throat, which she bent slightly to better show her collarbone and shoulders, bare over the edge of her green dress. "I will only tell you if you drink with me."

Zevran grinned and sipped, leaning with equal invitation towards her. Just as he was about to suggest they discuss this in one of the Pearl's more private chambers, he felt an unpleasant prick in his gut, followed by a tell-tale tingle in his mouth.

"Ah, my dear, you used Wolfsbane. How clever." A hot burn, much like that of the brandy, began to grow in his mouth over the tingle. Lily withdrew her dagger and handed him the antidote, her smile very satisfied as he quickly drank it down to avoid the next effects of the well-known poison: vomiting and death.

"So you have come here intent for a job." Zevran ignored the fury he felt for missing her little coin trick; no better than a carnival magician and still she had managed to nearly kill him. With a handkerchief, Zevran carefully wiped the fingers coated with poison picked up from the coin, which had then stirred the bane into his drink, his amber eyes glittering with suppressed malice. "I shall remember this for next time I need to poison a lover."

Lily laughed jovially, "I had the antidote ready, _Signore_, and only wanted to show you who should be taken on this trip. As for lovers… well." Her eyes slaked down his body and back up to his face, her lips curving in a sensuous smile. "We are not yet that well acquainted." In spite of his anger, Zevran felt a hot rush of desire. She would have to work hard to apologize to him, though. And he knew just how to make her work for his forgiveness.

"You have convinced me, my flower, but you owe me a great sum." Rising gracefully from his stool, Zevran held out one hand, which she accepted readily. When she was partway on her feet, Zevran tugged her hard so that she fell against him with a slight gasp. Sliding his arm around her waist, he inquired, "Shall we discuss how you will pay for it in my room?"

* * *

"So this Loghain tried to kill your Arl Eamon?" Leliana's cornflower eyes were thoughtful as she processed the information Charlotte and Alistair had brought back from the dungeons. Alistair was seated by the fire a servant had started in Eamon's office, which Teagan had hurriedly set aside for their meeting. His face reflected the warm glow of the fire, but his eyes were hard and cold with quiet anger. He had said almost nothing since they gathered with the others, lost in thoughts of vengeance.

"It appears so," Charlotte answered, watching over Alistair with concern. "Jowan was quite specific. Loghain came to personally visit him in the dungeon at Fort Drakon, where he was being held before what he thought was going to be his execution. Some of Loghain's men intercepted him from the Templars who had been sent to bring him back to the Circle and Loghain offered this… position as Connor's tutor as repayment for his crimes of blood magic. He said he would be casting down a traitor to Ferelden." Charlotte saw Alistair's fists clench at his sides, both arms shaking.

"A _traître_, hmmm? And what was Arl Eamon's alleged crime?" Leliana's eyes narrowed further as she leaned across Eamon's desk, hands spread wide over its surface. Morrigan hovered in the corner behind her, listening but attempting to appear detached from the group. Sten was guarding the door outside from unwelcome listeners.

"He didn't know," Charlotte sighed. "And Jowan had no proof of Loghain's crime beyond his own witness account. Loghain did not send him any letters or attach his seal to Jowan in any way, so we have the word of a blood mage and assassin against that of the Hero of River Dane. No one will believe him." She wiped her face with defeated hands, more frustrated than ever.

"It's despicable," Alistair spat, hands still shaking. "He poisoned him to get him out of the way. He knew Eamon could turn the Landsmeet against his favor. Damn him!" He slammed his fists on the arms of his chair, alarming Mastodon away from where he had been laying contentedly by the fire. Alistair rose irritably and began to pace.

"There has to be a way to link them, there has to!" He rubbed his chin furiously, skimming one large hand over the stubble he had been unable to shave for two days. "We cannot allow Loghain to get away with this – he's the ultimate traitor!" For good measure, he slammed his fist on the desk as he passed it, before turning heel to pace the room again. Charlotte grabbed him by the arm to stop him.

"Alistair," she insisted, tugging on the splintmail that covered his shoulder. "Alistair, you know we can't do that. Not now. We need to focus on the Darkspawn." Alistair tried to yank away from her, but she held fast.

"Charlotte is right," Leliana agreed, her expression kind. "It is our responsibility to see the land through the Blight, or its people will not be here to bring justice to this… abominable _vipère_." Morrigan said nothing, her eyes glowing from the shadows.

After a few moments of contemplation, Alistair relented, his shoulders softening under Charlotte's hand. "I want to go after him as much as you do," she told him, "But we must remain focused on our duty, or all will be lost." Carefully, she released the irate Warden and stepped back, feeling a little flush from having touched him. Leliana noted her pink cheeks with curiosity, eyes sliding slyly back to Alistair, who had also gone slightly red in the face. "You're right," he replied gruffly, hazel eyes a little guilty. "I apologize for my temper. He just…"

"Killed one and nearly murdered the second of the two men you most hold dear?" Morrigan's guess floated out from behind Leliana, her tone wry. Alistair glared at her for signs of superciliousness, but she displayed none. Alistair's face softened, crumpling with misery. "Yes," his voice grated, full of pain, and his fists clenched again. Hesitantly, Charlotte stroked his shoulder. His expression smoothed a little.

"I'm sorry Alistair, really, I….." Charlotte did not know what to say. She knew his pain, but she stamped down on it, not willing to show the others – or even herself – the level of rage and grief she felt for Arl Howe. It was still too raw. "I know that we can help bring down Loghain when all this is over, if we defeat the Blight." She finished lamely.

Alistair squeezed her hand gratefully, his smile small. "Thank you, I appreciate that." The two gazed at each other, then blushed, withdrawing from the pleasant tingle they felt at each other's touch. Leliana raised her eyebrows.

"Well," she said primly. "Now that we have decided what we want to do, how are we going to do it?" Leliana saw Charlotte smile a little in relief, evidently pleased she wasn't going to draw attention to the awkwardness between herself and Alistair.

"I think your suggestion of the Circle is a good one. Do they not also hold a treaty with the Grey Wardens?" She asked Alistair, who nodded. "Yes, _that _is an excellent point. We can hold them to account and help Connor – kill two birds with one stone."

"Are you so advanced that you can now use stones?" Morrigan inquired. Alistair twitched, before offering a leer and muttered reply.

"Advanced enough to clobber _you_." Charlotte was sure the others hadn't heard; Leliana wrinkled her forehead in confusion.

"What, Templar? Can you not speak?" Morrigan smirked with creamy satisfaction.

"You know what, Morrigan?" Charlotte's eyes flashed dangerously, her pale face flushed high on her cheeks and her dark red hair seeming to grow in size around her head as she stood forward, shoulders lifted along with one eyebrow. "Someday, Alistair is going to lose his temper and bash your head in with his shield. And, after all your deplorable behavior towards him, I will do nothing to stop it." Shaking a little, Charlotte lowered back from the tips of her toes. Alistair noted with surprise that her demeanor had been so intimidating he hadn't even realized that she wasn't actually taller. Morrigan looked sulky and shut up.

"We all have to work together," Charlotte continued, her voice a little breathless. Alistair grinned to himself; she had _quite _the temper. "And so from now on, acerbic barbs are forbidden. From both of you." She looked pointedly at Alistair, who saluted her in response. "Yes sir, Commander, sir!" After a moment of severity, Charlotte stuck her tongue out at him, making sure the others wouldn't see. His eyes danced mischievously in response.

"Yes." Leliana's tone of voice belayed no knowledge of what was happening between the two Wardens, but an amused smile tugged at the edge of her lips.

"So, we will go to the Circle and seek aid. Let us share this with Teagan and see if the Arlessa can spare some supplies." The hard glint in Charlotte's eyes suggested that the Arlessa would be delighted to accommodate them in any way she could. "We will set out tomorrow."

* * *

Teagan was unspeakably grateful for their aid and immediately offered to supply food, tents, horses and anything else they could need for their trip.

"Horses," Charlotte told him, "Would be most welcome."

Rather conveniently, one of the Arlessa's trusted messengers had survived the assault, hidden away amongst the Val Chevin Viognier and Highever Honey Meade in their cellar. He was dispatched to alert Bodhan to the Wardens' plan and to seek help amongst the villagers to get the castle running again. Within the hour, ten men and women had appeared at the castle gates, admitted by a watchful Ser Perth and the rest of his garrison, who were now distributed along the castle hallways.

Isolde had permitted them to see Eamon, following the Wardens' short conference. The Arl's pallor was a sickly grey and covered in a fine sheen of sweat, his hair stringy against the pillow, with rasping breaths rattling in his chest. He must have been at least 10 years older than his wife, or else the poison had seriously aged him. Connor had been confined to his room with a rather effective sleeping spell from Morrigan, who had followed him covertly after his attack to subdue the demon and give them time to plan. The spell required periodic replenishment, however, as the demon fought against her mental binds from the Fade.

"Tis most exhausting," she complained, wiping her brow. Charlotte could see the wear on her and Alistair hovered nearby, using his Templar senses to monitor her use of mana and make sure she didn't harm herself. "The desire demon is powerful and determined to break through." A thought occurred to Charlotte that she knew would me immediately unpopular.

"Could Jowan help you?" she inquired. Teagan and Isolde gaped at her in horror, then Teagan began to splutter.

"But… My lady, I daresay… surely there is a better…"

"I am afraid there is not." Morrigan interrupted, studying Charlotte with interest. "I need the assistance of another mage. At the very least, if this continues, I will be unable to accompany you to the Circle and I imagine that even with my limited healing powers, I will be missed." Charlotte could not agree more, but there was another problem.

"If we take you, there is a danger you will be… imprisoned, if not executed. The only way I can save you is if I say you are conscripted into the Grey Wardens."

Morrigan raised one eyebrow, "You will hear no objection from me, should you need to use it. However…" Morrigan hesitated, searching for the most diplomatic words she could muster. "I do not actually wish to be a Grey Warden." Charlotte waved her hand dismissively.

"I'm well aware of that and do not expect it. However, if you are conscripted, there is the matter of your… uniform." All eyes went immediately to Morrigan's scanty leathers, the male gazes lingering slightly longer than necessary. Morrigan sighed.

"I am well aware of your disapproval, but allow me to explain. I need my clothes to support my… extra abilities." She communicated carefully, her eyes piercing Charlotte's with unspoken meaning. Surprised, Charlotte looked at the feathers on Morrigan's shoulder and strings of leather hanging down her back with strips of fur attached and understood. Morrigan's forms – that she had shared, at least – included a hawk and a wolf.

"Do they provide you adequate protection?" Charlotte pressed, not to be deterred from her mission. Morrigan smirked.

"Have you not noticed there has not been a single scratch on me since we met?" Teagan's eyes flickered over the pale, smooth skin exposed by the leathers and he flushed with consternation.

"Very well – but whatever you need to do to add to your protection, see that you do it." Charlotte ordered, secretly annoyed that argument had been lost. Morrigan preened and slunk away to rest in the corner of the room.

Isolde sat on the bed next to her ailing husband, her face pinched with disapproval. "Lady Cousland," she snapped tartly. "I cannot believe that you would think for even a moment that I would allow Jowan to oversee the care of my Connor." Charlotte tried not to sigh.

"Arlessa, I understand your concern completely. Which is why he won't be in charge of anything – and please just address me as Warden." Teagan wrinkled his face in confusion, "But Charlotte, you just asked if-"

"Pardon my interruption Bann Teagan, but you misunderstood. Morrigan will take energy from Jowan and use it to cast the spell." Alistair explained. Morrigan had used this trick on the road when she healed Charlotte's mangled foot, pulling from Alistair and Leliana to knit the flesh back together. She had complained then of not having access to another mage, which would have significantly increased her available mana for the basic healing spell.

"So, will the process… kill him?" Teagan asked worriedly. Charlotte shook her head. "No, but it will allow her to cast a much stronger spell and come with us to the tower."

There was a soft knock at the door; one of Arl Eamon's knights poked his head in, saluting briefly. "Pardon me, Bann Teagan, but I just wanted to let you know the guest rooms are ready." Teagan thanked him and he withdrew.

"Let us reconvene tomorrow morning," Teagan offered graciously. "Fortunately, several of the maids survived. I've had them draw baths for you and there are fresh clothes to sleep in. They will wash your linens while you rest. Food will also be brought to your rooms once you are ready." Charlotte and Alistair, had they tails, would have wagged them furiously in rhythm with Mastodon at this news. They were starving.

"Thank you, Bann Teagan and Arlessa Isolde." Charlotte curtsied to the Arlessa, well aware that the woman had nothing to do with Teagan's hospitality. Just barely shamed, the Arlessa curled her lip into the approximation of a smile and nodded, turning back to face her husband on the bed.

"Nonsense," Teagan insisted, his expression serious. "We owe you a debt that cannot be repaid – especially if you save my nephew. My thanks to you, Warden Charlotte." He bowed.

The group, composed of Alistair, Leliana, Charlotte, Mastodon, and Morrigan, trailed from the room to be led to their guest chambers. Sten had retired on the outskirts of the village, where he was going to make camp near Bodhan. Morrigan had briefly considered joining the Qunari, but decided that having such rich accommodations would be rather more pleasant than camping. She followed a timid elven maid who seemed regretful to have received the most unusual house guest. The Chamberlain had managed to survive the onslaught and took charge of Alistair, as their wardrobe man had perished on the first night. Charlotte would bunk with Leliana - space without corpse gore or blood was limited - and was glad of the chance to rest, her eyes instantly searching for their own maidservant.

Outside Eamon's door, a nervous elf who was obviously not a servant loitered in the hallway, his pointed ears sticking out from a smart messenger's cap. When he caught sight of Charlotte and Leliana, he bolted, muttering to himself as he turned the corner. "Very strange," Leliana murmured, staring intently after him. Charlotte was too tired to care. "Yes, I suppose so." She followed after a blond maidservant who had come to take her to their room. Leliana watched after the small man, still wondering. "Very strange, indeed."

* * *

As the hot bathwater was poured over her, Charlotte nearly moaned with pleasure. Leliana, fresh from her own bath, giggled from behind the screen. "Enjoying ourselves, are we _Mademoiselle_?"

Charlotte nodded, then realized Leliana couldn't see her. "Oh yes." The little maid who had come to get her, Nora, scrubbed Charlotte's back with a brush and poured more rose water into the bath. Charlotte loved rose water.

"Thank you," she told Nora gratefully, who smiled in return. Nora was pale, but hearty, and had shared that her family had served at Redcliffe castle since before her grandmother was born in the village. She was "right glad" to be providing baths again, even if she was a "bit knackered, if you don't mind me saying so, my lady."

As Nora brushed the tangles out of Charlotte's hair – just heaven – Charlotte's eyes lingered hungrily on the tray another maid had brought to their room a few minutes earlier. The tantalizing smells of meat stew wafted into the air and her stomach growled in response to the steam's siren call. "Be patient," Leliana admonished. "I do not understand how you and Alistair can eat so much!" She emerged from the make-shift changing room in a gown of blue from Isolde's personal stores. It rather suited her. Charlotte would have preferred trousers and a loose tunic with a belt, but she had felt it would be wrong to get fussy and resigned herself to the gown of green Teagan had offered her.

On their bed in the next chamber lay two nightgowns for when they decided to go to sleep. The sun was not yet down, but would be in a couple of hours. Charlotte could already feel her lids getting heavy, relaxed as she was from the hot, soapy water. The wooden tub was nicely padded and lined, a luxury she had only enjoyed at her home or the homes of other nobles. It was more than she could have asked for, after the rough existence she had become accustomed to as a new Warden.

Her work done, Nora braided Charlotte's hair and helped her from the tub, drying her skin and moisturizing it with cool lotion made from chamomile and roses. When Charlotte commented on the lotion's divine scent, Nora handed her a large glass bottle of the stuff, eyes twinkling. "I expect Bann Teagan would give you the Arlessa's entire stores, mistress, if it were up to him. But seeing as you like it so much, you keep this bit, eh?" Nora folded their towels neatly and then assisted Leliana in dressing Charlotte, who blustered with embarrassment that she could not do it herself, since she knew how to put on her own armor.

"I'll teach you," Leliana offered, tying a small ribbon with care. "It isn't as difficult as it looks."

Seeing how the dining room was still littered with rotting corpses, everyone decided to take their trays in the guest apartments. Morrigan had been awarded the largest chamber, and all to herself, which she seemed to enjoy. Alistair's bedroom had a small receiving chamber that contained a desk, which they put to good use as a table so they could share their dinner together. Morrigan took hers in her room and had not emerged after her bath. "Probably still naked and unwilling to wear the Arlessa's dress," Charlotte muttered to a snorting Leliana. Alistair stuffed his face with bread, unaware of his companion's sarcasm.

Once Charlotte and Alistair were replete – several trays of food later – Leliana excused herself to go to bed. The two Wardens sat together in companionable silence in front of Alistair's fire, the wings of the desk extended to bear the weight of many dishes.

As Charlotte allowed herself to be drawn into a stupor by the crackling of the flames, a deep voice cleared its throat. "You look nice, by the way." Charlotte glanced in surprise at Alistair, who shifted with embarrassment. "It's a… pretty dress. And good hair." He seemed unable to say more, so Charlotte thanked him, also embarrassed. He looked rather handsome in a doublet borrowed from Eamon – if a tad confined, seeing as he was a head taller with broader shoulders – but she felt unable to tell him so and went silent.

"It's funny, I never imagined you in a dress. You seem so at home in armor," Alistair mused, stroking his freshly shaved chin. Charlotte slumped a little in disappointment, then looked away, her eyes downcast. "Oh… I suppose you're right. It doesn't really suit me, does it?" She tried not to feel stupid, picking at her skirt self-consciously. Alistair raised his hands, grimacing in horror. "No! No, of course it does, that's not what I… Oh bugger, I'm sorry. I didn't mean…." He sighed.

Alistair studied her; Charlotte's head was bent away from him, so that he couldn't see her eyes. She was picking a little at her skirt with her fingers; her magnificent hair twisted down her back in a complicated-looking rope and the dress she wore, although slightly too big, hung elegantly over her dainty shoulders. The green made her eyes rich with color and caused her hair – so dark a shade of red it seemed almost black out of sunlight – to flare like a beacon. She was stunning and he felt like an idiot, all thumbs as he tried to compliment her and tell her he thought she was the most incredible, kind, and beautiful woman he had ever met. Not knowing how she felt, whether she could ever… well, he had no idea how to approach the situation.

"Charlotte," he prodded finally, trying to get her to turn around. She wound a ribbon around her fingers and didn't look at him. He sighed again.

"Charlotte, what I meant to say was, you look really beautiful. That dress is lovely and I wish you were in a life where you could wear more of them, rather than blood-stained armor all the time." Disgruntled, Alistair looked into the fire, rubbing his sweaty palms on the tight trousers Teagan gave him. Damned velvet didn't absorb anything.

When Alistair looked up, he was shocked to find Charlotte had scooted her chair much closer, a shy smile on her full lips. "Thank you, Alistair, but the truth is… I don't really like dresses." She whispered the last part as a shameful confession, then made a face and laughed a little, looking through her lashes up at him. Relieved and amused, Alistair laughed with her. Before long, the two of them were hysterical, howling with mirth in front of the fire, not knowing what they were laughing about, but glad all the same.

* * *

_The Darkspawn were encroaching. A green haze settled over the land like smoke from a fire and a foulness the likes of which Charlotte had never before experienced filled her senses, choking her as she watched on in horror. _

_The Blight was everywhere; Charlotte's daggers lay heavy at her sides and she found she could not lift them. The fighting field was littered with dead bodies - most of them men. Charlotte called out for her comrades, but no one answered, her voice lost in the cacophony of hatred that were the screams of her greatest adversary. Its shadow loomed larger than anything she had ever seen, growing as it approached through the smoke and poison. Its roars made the ground rattle beneath her and when she went to grab the earth for support, pustules burst at her touch, filled with black and yellow purulence that sucked her hands inexorably deep into the ground's boils. _

_She was trapped, struggling against the pull of the Blighted land, watching as the shadow which had grown so large now shrank into focus. The Archdemon was almost here; it was descending, its wings casting powerful gusts of wind as it tried to find her. She called again, her screams lost in the wind, searching for for someone - anyone - who could help her get out of these pestilential shackles. Her shoulders were tired, aching from the tug of the boils, which continued to suck her further in. Charlotte screamed, wrenching back to try and get away, her body sweating from the effort._

_"Charlotte." _

_A soft voice called to her from the smoke, echoing against the screams of the Archdemon._

_"Charlotte."_

_Charlotte's eyes reeled, looking for the source. The sky was red - as red as blood. Charlotte's chest heaved with panic._

_"Charlotte, I'm here." _

_Charlotte looked in astonishment at a slim figure emerging from the green mist, approaching her with slow deliberateness over the Blighted earth._

_"Charlotte, darling, just look at you!"_

_Eleanor stood over her, hands folded neatly in front of her, as she watched Charlotte struggle with amused interest. "What have you done, my dear?" _

_Charlotte cried, trying to call for her mother, but no sound came out. She reared back, trying vainly to free her hands._

_"It's useless, dear. You are to be punished."_

_Charlotte froze, eyes wide._

_"You are to be punished for failing me." Eleanor's smile split open, her eyes glowing like the Archdemon, her mouth filling with pointed teeth and fire..._

"NOOOOOOOO!" Charlotte fell back in a torrent of limbs, taking the sheets with her, a host of small knick-knacks tumbling from the bedside table in her wake.

"Charlotte, my dear! Wake up!" Leliana clambered after her in concern, hair mussed around her face as she tried to stop Charlotte from tangling herself further in the sheets. Charlotte breathed in short gasps, trying to free herself as tears streaked down her face. Finally, with an almighty _riii-iiippp_, she was released and she stumbled to her feet, wrenching open the door and fleeing from the bed chamber.

Charlotte had no idea where she was going, but she knew she had to get away. She didn't know how much Leliana had heard and couldn't bear to answer questions. She had just careened around the corner when Alistair's door opened and his fuzzy head peeked out questioningly. "What in Andraste's name - Charlotte, are you alright?" Alistair stopped her by grabbing her slender arm and Charlotte almost struggled, wild with fear.

"Let me go!" she demanded, eyes wide and beyond reason. Alistair grasped her more firmly, pulling her into the receiving room of his bed chamber. "Ssshhh, come here." He shut the door and pulled up a chair, lowering a heaving Charlotte onto the seat. "By the Maker, what happened? Was it a dream?"

Charlotte blubbered, eyes still hot from the crying she had done in her sleep. "That was no dream, Alistair! It was the worst of nightmares!" She covered her face, sobbing. Alistair rubbed his head sleepily, trying to think what to do. "Ssshhh," he hushed soothingly, "Everything is fine, it wasn't real." As Alistair patted her back, he realized she was in her nightgown and stiffened in embarrassment. "Um, be right back." He shuffled off to his bed chamber and emerged with a night jacket the Chamberlain had left by his door; Alistair draped it around Charlotte's shoulders, sitting blearily on the floor next to the dying embers of the fire, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and shivering against the cold of early morning.

Charlotte sniffed and wrapped the velvet jacket tightly around her, comforted by its softness. She realized Alistair was in an old pair of natty trousers and nothing else. She flushed. "I'm sorry, you must be cold." She tried to slide the jacket off, but he waved her away.

"No, no," he mumbled, his eyes rolling a bit. "I'm fine, I'll just get a shirt, shall I?" Alistair stumbled back into the other room and emerged a few moments later with a blanket from his bed. "It wasn't there yet, guess they haven't finished washing my clothes." He yawned hugely and sat back in front of the fire, rubbing his hair. After a moment's hesitation, Charlotte slid out of the chair and joined him on the stone, snuggling down in the big jacket.

Alistair coaxed the embers with the fire poker next to the hearth, trying to stir them into greater energy. "There," he said after a moment, awkwardly replacing the poker. "That should help."

The two of them sat together for a time, saying nothing while Charlotte calmed down. Alistair just stayed with her, not asking her any questions about her unconscious torment, although whether this was out of patience or exhaustion she could not tell. Finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse.

"So," he said, clearing his throat. "What scared you so much you accidentally ran into my bedroom?" The joke fell weakly from his lips, but his eyes were intent and full of concern. She swallowed.

"I... saw the Archdemon. And my mother. It was terrible." She could not stand to say more than that. Alistair understood.

"I've seen it as Duncan," he told her, his voice full of sympathy. "I don't dream about Archdemon much, but when I do it's the most truly terrifying experience in my non-waking life. You're not alone - and it isn't real. We see things it says to us, but they are just the sick phantasms of its twisted mind. Nothing more."

Charlotte took a great deal of comfort from his words. His voice was soothing and the solidness of him by the fire was slowly drawing her out of the sense of unreal horror the dream had stirred in her. He patted her hand, a small smile on his lips. "We'll knock it on its backside, you'll see." Charlotte almost giggled.

The silence stretched out between them again, punctuated occasionally by Alistair poking the embers to keep them going. Charlotte finally spoke; she wanted to stay near him, but knew she would need an excuse better than, "I'm still scared of the Archdemon." That was just going to be true until she managed to kill it - or died trying.

"So, did you get to stay up late at night with the other Grey Wardens after your recruitment?" She tried to smile to show that she was partly joking. Alistair chuckled.

"Yes and no - Wardens are not great sleepers. Although, once you get used to the weird visions, you pretty much get back to business at night. We usually spent time together during the day, playing cards or eating. Merek was a great drinker - he used to drink _pints _and _pints _of ale without ever getting drunk! This one time..." Alistair trailed off when he looked at her, his expression dimming self-consciously. "I'm sure you don't want to hear this," he laughed with obvious uncertainty, running his fingers through his already messed hair. Charlotte shook her head vigorously, "No, please tell me. I would love to know."

"Well, this one time," Alistair leaned forward, eyes huge with enthusiasm as he grinned. He looked like an excited boy, and Charlotte suppressed an affectionate smile so as not to fluster him. "He said he would drink a pint for every _half _pint the rest of us drank. When Duncan came into the mess hall hours later, he said all of us were passed out around the table with Merek sitting at the head, still drinking!" Alistair threw his head back, hearty with amusement, then faltered, his face becoming sad.

"I'm sorry, Alistair - but at least you carry such good memories from your time with them. It doesn't seem like you got that from being a Templar." Charlotte reached out from within the jacket and took his hand, squeezing it and drawing a little closer to see his face, which was partly cast in shadow. The sun had not yet risen, but would be soon. Alistair ran his thumb over the top of her hand, his expression wistful and a little bitter.

"You're right, I just... miss them so much. How they died - even if it was on the battlefield, it wasn't right." The blanket slipped a little off his shoulder and Charlotte appreciated the golden skin there, stretched tight over hard muscle. She tried to focus on what he was saying.

"I'm so grateful to Duncan for recruiting me. If he hadn't, I'd be drooling in some Chantry right now, addicted to lyrium and trapped for the rest of my life."

Drooling? "What do you mean, addicted to lyrium?" Charlotte asked in alarm. Alistair scoffed, his expression cynical.

"That's something the Chantry doesn't share with its disciples; the Templars are given lyrium to "enhance" their magical abilities. But the truth is, we can operate without it, if with less power. What the lyrium really does is keep a close rein on the Templars; those who use lyrium become addicted and since the Chantry controls the lyrium trade with the dwarves in Orzammar..." he allowed Charlotte to come to her own conclusions. She, in her typical form, was passionately outraged.

"How _horrible!_ I can't believe it's allowed - why don't more people know of this?" She glared at Alistair, the embers catching in her viridian eyes. Alistair felt his mouth curve fondly; despite her ferocity and intelligence, Charlotte had enjoyed limited exposure to the realities of the world, and sometimes had occasion to betray her innocence. Without thinking, he snatched a strand of hair which had worked free of her braid and gently placed it behind her ear. Charlotte pinkened.

"I couldn't agree more, but unfortunately the Chantry is rather _powerful_ and therefore not held accountable by many. You see the problem?" Charlotte shifted on the floor, her mouth pouting in a beautiful rosebud of ire as she huffed over the injustice of it.

"If I ever gain back my standing in the Landsmeet, I won't allow this to go unnoticed any longer. If Fergus is alive - " Charlotte cut off, her face troubled. Alistair felt the need to protect her; the jacket was slipping down in a red velvet pool around her and she looked so small and vulnerable... and possibly all alone in the world. He knew how that felt.

"Charlotte, if he is alive, we will find him and he will take back the Teyrnir. Howe will be brought to justice. I swear to personally help you see that done." The promise was rash, but he felt it with his heart's deepest desire, and so when she looked into his kind eyes she smiled, glad to have such a loyal friend by her side.

"Thank you Alistair, for everything. I'm sorry I woke you so rudely." Her sweetness made something hot and unsettling flare in Alistair's stomach. His breath quickened as he looked at her, hand frozen next to her face. Charlotte's eyes widened.

Alistair had thought about this; who would walk next to this woman every day and not dream of it? She was brave, generous, and strong. She had forged ahead when she had every reason to give up - more than Alistair did, he thought with shame. She had lost everything, even the only thing to give her reason, and still she had kept them all together. And she beguiled him - a kind heart living behind a stunning face - and a heart that she seemed to struggle to protect in spite of her beauty, rather than because of it, as if she had no idea whatsoever of her looks.

"I just realized," Alistair murmured, hazel melting into green, "How hard this must have been for you. I'm so sorry, Charlotte. I'm so sorry I've been doing nothing but complaining."

Charlotte gulped, her voice coming out in a breathy whisper. "It's alright."

Alistair's eyes slid down to those lips, his own parting expectantly. Charlotte's heart fluttered with anticipation, torn between excitement and a little fear. Alistair's thick lashes were lowered, giving his eyes a hooded look as he studied her. His hand was rough and warm against her cheek and the blanket he had previously wrapped around him fell, forgotten, in a heap around his legs, revealing his broad, firm chest. Charlotte's heart took off and began pounding so loud she was sure he could hear it; wanting to encourage him, she leaned forward, clutching at the bed jacket with nerves.

It was now or never; Alistair cupped her face with his hand, bending his lips close to hers.

"CHARLOTTE!" The door swung open with a bang; Alistair and Charlotte scrambled apart. In his haste, Alistair got tangled in the blanket and fell with a loud _thump _against the floor.

"Oh," Leliana stood, disconcerted, in the doorway, one hand covering her mouth with belated understanding. Charlotte, flushed and humiliated, tore off the bed jacket and handed it to a shocked Alistair, who accepted it automatically.

"Thank you again for calming me down," Charlotte muttered; she exited in a rush, followed by Leliana, who cringed apologetically at Alistair as she shut the door. Morose beyond measure, he grabbed the blanket along with the jacket and carried them both, tripping himself along the way, back into his bed chamber.


	20. Guess Who's Coming to Kill You

**_A/N: _**_Hi! Thank you again for reading. I hope everyone is enjoying the story. It's become a little bit more detail-oriented that I originally anticipated, but I hope that is a good thing. Thank you again to _**_Kyla Baines _**_and __**Momongiri **__for their helpful and supportive feedback. Any and all is very much appreciated! _

_Enid._

_P.S. As I am a huge classic movie fan/buff, all my titles will now reference classic films. The last chapter inspired the idea. Just wanted to clarify so you all can enjoy the references! _

* * *

The morning was painful for Alistair. Flashes of Charlotte's white face kept causing him to cringe as he dressed himself in his freshly laundered linens. Her speedy departure, punctuated by the soft closing of the door, echoed in his head over and over until he was awash with humiliation.

Breakfast had been delivered with expedience in order to ensure they were on their way within the hour. The Bann, despite his gratitude, had made it clear that their best efforts were the least of what he expected. Alistair wolfed down his breakfast – _That's one thing I'm good at doing, at least – _and went to meet the others in the main hall downstairs.

Being in the castle was both strange and familiar to Alistair. There were paintings, hallways, bits and pieces that had not changed which called out to the boy in him, beseeching him to remember. Eamon had been kind then, if distant, and Alistair had craved his love. After all, Eamon had been the closest thing to a father Alistair had ever experienced, until Duncan, and by that time it was too late to dispel any illusions that Alistair was not an abandoned bastard left to the mercy of the world.

He didn't suppose Maric was a bad man; from what Alistair understood, he'd been an unhappy king, although he'd served to the best of his ability. He remembered whispered conversations Eamon had shared with Loghain following Maric's disappearance – two men who hated each other that much forced to be in the same room, it could only have come from a terrible tragedy or historically momentous occasion. Loghain had believed Maric left deliberately, either as an attempt at suicide or to make him look like he was dead so he could be relieved of his position. From what Alistair could recall, Eamon blustered, refusing to comment either way, a diplomat to the very last. Even as a young boy, Alistair had understood what some of this meant : that Maric was not as perfect as he had seemed and that being a hero, even a King with all the wealth in the land at your disposal, did not save you from who you were. It was one of the many reasons why he was so determined to remain an anonymous shadow to the people of Ferelden and do his duty as a Grey Warden. He did not want his life, or the lives of those he may care for, to be complicated by his blood or position.

Alistair clomped into the main hall, eyes sweeping the space for other signs of activity. As promised, Morrigan had cast her sleeping spell under the watchful eyes of Bann Teagan while drawing from the energy of Jowan. She was resting by the hearth that framed the hall's dais like an open mouth ready to swallow up the entire room. Reaching out with his Templar abilities, he gauged how tired she might be and concluded she should make the journey with minimal risk. The table had been righted from its earlier toppled position, caused by the attack of those scary possessed suits of armor. Alistair had been particularly alarmed by the sight of them, although he'd never admit it. The empty suits were all throughout the castle and had given him the heebie-jeebies as a boy, often leading to unpleasant nightmares about them taking him to the dungeons or other such horrors.

Seated at the table were Charlotte and Leliana, who were tracing a line along a map together under the watchful grimace of Sten. Mastodon was sitting at a respectful distance from Morrigan by the fire, his eyes alight for opportunities to draw closer. Why he kept trying with her, Alistair would never know. Teagan was also at the table, next to Charlotte, talking about something seriously and waving one hand. Alistair's ears pinkened when he got a good look at the braid trailing down Charlotte's back; it reminded him what a fool he'd been the night before, touching her hair and nearly… well, from the way she reacted afterward, that was clearly not something he was allowed to do. Bracing himself, he marched up the table and sat himself next to Leliana, who smiled in greeting.

"Morning all," Alistair offered, eyeing Charlotte nervously. "And how did our lovely beauties sleep last night? Which includes Teagan, of course?" he added, attempting at a bit of humor. Teagan chuckled obligingly.

"Fine, thank you." Charlotte's tone was clipped; he noted unhappily that she avoided his gaze as she tucked a stray bit of hair behind her ear. Alistair willed himself not to blush at the memory that this gesture prompted. "We're planning our route to the Circle. It shouldn't take more than three days, all being well. I'm very grateful to finally have horses," Charlotte smiled at Teagan, who nodded his head respectfully in return. "It is our pleasure, Warden Charlotte. Please continue."

Charlotte pointed to the map with one finger, "We'll have to take the route through Gherlen's Pass in order to avoid the darkspawn, as well as to shorten our journey. With our mounts, the trip should be three days at the most, but I'm going to pack enough food and supplies for five. I don't know what will be available once we're there and, with the darkspawn incursion growing every day, we cannot be sure that our trip won't be interrupted by unwanted visitors on the road."

Leliana chirped a suggestion, "Perhaps we should encourage Bodhan to bring his cart, then?" Charlotte shook her head. "No, he'll be a prime target for bandits, and he'll slow us down. Bodhan stays here." Leliana accepted this with an elegant shrug of her shoulders, but Alistair could see the will burning there. This was a woman unaccustomed to taking these kinds of orders, perhaps? Alistair wondered again at the background of this strange Chantry sister.

"Alistair," Charlotte looked at him reluctantly, "I've not yet heard your preference on who comes with us. Obviously, we will need Morrigan to attend to our healing. Outside of that, I've not yet made any decisions. Whom do you wish in the party?" All eyes turned to Alistair, who grumbled inwardly at being the center of attention.

"Why not everyone?" he inquired after a moment's consideration. "Those who do not wish to come into the Circle can camp or stay at that inn, what is it? The Ruined Queen or something? Then we'll have more than adequate defenses on the road, but a diplomatic party can be assembled for meeting with the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter."

Alistair waited for their answers nervously, unaware that Charlotte was chiding herself for not thinking of that solution sooner. Despite her training and time spent with her father's men, the simple fact was she was not as experienced as Alistair and sometimes that was going to show. Sten had noticed this and narrowed his eyes disapprovingly at their small leader, his already thin trust in her waning as he realized that she had not come to this obvious conclusion on her own.

"That sounds like a splendid idea, Alistair." Leliana praised. "Very sensible."

"Then we are agreed." Charlotte rose from the table, rolling up the map Teagan had given her of the area. She hoped no one noticed how frustrated she was with herself or the way it made her hands shake a little. "Sten, gather our foodstuffs from the larder with Bann Teagan. We need to eat a lot more than you, so please account for that and ensure there is enough to feed us for five days." Sten received his orders stoically and left the room with a startled Bann Teagan, whom Sten towered over by several feet. Sensing movement, Mastodon rose quickly and came to his mistress' side, panting and ready after his restful night in the main hall, where servants had made him a bed by the fire.

"I have to go see if they have any horses big enough for Sten," Charlotte spoke slightly left of Alistair's nose, allowing her to look into his face without meeting his eyes. "As soon as the grooms are done preparing them for our journey and Sten returns with the supplies, we'll be ready." With that, she disappeared around the corner, heading towards the exit that would take her to the stables, Mastodon close at her heels. Alistair sighed heavily.

"Fear not, my timid lover." Leliana patted Alistair on the shoulder while he stiffened in reproach at her use of the word 'timid.' "Soon, the blush of her _gêne _will fade and she will remember the other… heat she felt before." Leliana winked and a now-mortified Alistair blustered. "Leliana! That… how could you…"

Suddenly furious, he pulled the mischievous woman aside and poked her accusingly in the shoulder. "You interrupted us deliberately, didn't you?!" He whispered, albeit loudly, so as not to be overheard by an obviously curious Morrigan, who feigned boredom but leaned surreptitiously over one side of her chair to hear better. Alistair pulled Leliana further away, still glaring with censure. Leliana giggled.

"Perhaps yes, perhaps _non_, but rest assured that my decision will only help you in your endeavor." Alistair drew himself up to his full height, absolutely indignant that she would interfere in such a way. "Who are you exactly to insert yourself into other people's affairs?" he demanded, shyness forgotten.

Smiling slyly, Leliana's eyes sparkled as she answered. "I am, shall we say, a more experienced friend? Trust me Alistair, had you kissed her then, Charlotte would have regretted it later and the _amour _blooming between the two of you would have been over before it began. You must pick the right moment to sweep her into your arms and then… _voila_, she will be yours forever." Leliana's face became simultaneously lascivious and sad, but she smiled more broadly to encourage him. Alistair, ever suspicious, narrowed his eyes to slits and asked, "How would you know?"

At this, the woman grinned wickedly, "Ah, but that is my secret to keep, my dear man. Suffice it to say that, while I do enjoy the company of men, there are also woman who have benefitted from my comely charms, yes? And Charlotte… she is a true prize to be won." Her eyes danced at his astonishment; chagrined, Alistair worked hard not to imagine Leliana wooing Charlotte, the damage those two could do together… Now very uncomfortable, Alistair cleared his throat and nodded, "Right, so, you've done this before. Got it."

Leliana's laugh tinkled prettily off the stone hallway, muffled by tapestries and a thick rug on the floor. "My dear Alistair, you are sweet! There is no need to be embarrassed; love between individuals is a beautiful thing, no matter the conditions which brought them together. Now, come, I have some more valuable advice to give." Slipping her arm through his, Leliana walked a bemused Alistair through lesson one on the art of wooing women.

* * *

Zevran looked upon the small village of Redcliffe with resignation; it seemed he would be offered no relief from the smell of sweat and wet dog in Ferelden. Now, the smell of fish was added to the mix, but not the fresh, clean scent he associated with Antiva's cerulean-blue waters. Instead, it hung heavy, clinging to the mixture of sweat and wet dog like a sad woman who knew she was unwelcome but could not bear to be left alone. Trying not to breathe through his nose, Zevran checked over his shoulder for his companions.

Lily walked with a cool arrogance down the dusty path; her legs were long in her studded leathers and she had two daggers crossed at her back. The rest of the party played hide-and-seek, trying to blend in with the shadows of the forest, which instead revealed their position as they haphazardly stumbled through the dappled light of the trees and distorted the shadows and light even further. Lily seemed to be the only competent member of her cell, understanding one of the most important lessons to being an assassin: in order to blend in, you must be unremarkable. Do as everyone else is doing, wear what they wear, say what they say. These young ones were dying to prove themselves and, in so feeling, were trying Zevran's already frayed nerves. He snapped an order in Antivan, which brought two of them out of the shadows. Those two who remained emerged shortly after Lily mimicked the order in the King's Tongue, her tone even harsher than Zevran's. "Enough of that clumsy prancing!" She snapped, her eyes cold. "Do as you are bid and remain calm. Have some dignity, for Maker's sake!" She slapped the young elf, Nunis, across the face. Zevran had noticed how Lily had taken the lead with her group, forcing them into position so that she may go where she wished to, while selectively bullying the others when it suited her. Nunis was her favorite; the girl was slight, but a good fighter. She had done well against some bandits they encountered on the road from Denerim, but never against Lily's cruelty. Zevran grabbed Lily's wrist as she drew it back for a second strike, surprising her. Nunis, who had been cringing in preparation, opened one eye when she did not feel the slap she had been expecting.

"You should learn to pick on those who match you in temperament, my dear." Zevran's eyes, once warm and molten when they looked at her, were now as cold as steel. Since their night together at the Pearl, he had quickly found that the charm of her instability grew sour, making her an unpleasant traveling companion and risky bedfellow. He had refused her after their first night on the road; she was not taking it well.

Lily tried to yank her hand away, her face sharpening into an unattractively hateful expression. "Let go of me!" She commanded, raising her other hand to strike him. Zevran, lightning-quick, maneuvered so he was behind her and she was restrained, a dagger now poised over the cream-colored throat. She inhaled quickly.

The others watched with a mixture of amazement and fear; Nunis seemed both grateful and unhappy at his intervention, sure this would somehow come back on her later. Jonshai and Asher, the other males in the group, one Antivan and the other of unknown origin, both stared impassively at Lily's predicament, despite the unease Zevran's skill stirred in each of them. Jonshai mostly kept to himself and was expert with a bow; his face bore the mark of someone who had been with the Crows since childhood, although he had not distinguished himself beyond his silence and aim. Asher, most likely from the Free Marches, was tall and burly, with a thick, black beard and stoic expression. Both of them hated Lily, but said nothing to the other, neither one of them trusting anyone in their party or interested in any kind of relationships beyond those stolen with whores between missions.

"Stop this! Unhand me!" Lily's voice wavered, more breathless than before as she failed to hide her fear. Zevran growled and waited for her to be silent, holding the dagger closer, until it nicked her skin and drew a small trickle of blood. Lily clamped her mouth shut, eyes widening with suppressed terror.

The tension between the two of them had been growing over the two weeks since they left Denerim. Lily, despite her best efforts, could not supersede his leadership of the party. When Zevran would no long take her to his bed, she had no leverage upon which to control him and her ire had grown with each step away from the city. Zevran had come to realize she was nothing but a crazed bully and that, yet again, parts other than his mind had led him to make a rash decision. Zevran was only allowed the assistance of one cell, so he could not take others or turn and go back, which would have delayed everything and put him at risk of violating his contract. The only choice had been to forge ahead and hope the group had the skill to at least reach their targets with minimal damage. But enough was enough.

"It seems you are now listening, my flower, so hear me well." He twisted the blade against her skin, causing her to bleed further and mewl with pain, which she attempted to stifle. Another display of her lack of discipline; a true Crow would not have uttered a sound. "If you attempt to attack another member of our party again, I will dispose of you so quickly you will not even have the time to wish you would not die. Then, I will leave your body to the wolves and allow them to eat you, piece by piece, so that I can explain to Master Ignacio that your abilities failed to save you even from a dinner's death. Do you understand me?" When she did not immediately answer, he began to slide his blade down her neck. "Yes!" she cried, desperate. "I understand! Now, release me!" Zevran did so, roughly, tossing her away from him so that she stumbled and fell in the dirt. Lily clutched the cut along her neck and glared at him, wanting to retaliate but knowing it was not worth the risk.

Zevran sheathed his weapon with a smile, then went to check for bruising on Nunis' face. She withdrew nervously, then allowed him to spread a salve over her cheek. He tossed the remainder of the cream to Lily, who started and did not catch it. It landed short of her knee in the dust; still holding one hand over her throat where he had cut her, she looked up with a baleful expression, not moving to take it.

"Ah, my flower, but it seems you did not understand me after all." Zevran went to her and bent, grasping her by the hair and yanking her up as also he retrieved the poultice. Lily cried out, her eyes watering with pain, as Zevran brought her to her feet and pulled her hand away from her injury. "I am in charge here and you will do what I say." He thrust the container into her hands and opened it, smearing the cream all over her fingers so that she had no choice but to rub it away. It was far more than she would ever need, but his point was taken. Lily applied the salve to her cut (now also smeared with dust from her hands touching the ground) and winced, glaring at him and trying to fight the pain.

Zevran smirked and took the container away from her, resealing it and placing it inside his pack. "There, isn't that better? I am glad. Let us go and see whether our Warden friends have been here, shall we? After you." Zevran bowed to Nunis, who timidly danced ahead. Zevran followed her down the hill, with Jonshai and Asher right behind him, forcing a sulking Lily to make up the rear end.

* * *

Surly and uncertain, Alistair made his way to the stables.

Leliana had stressed that taking control of the situation – rather than running away or avoidance, admittedly his first instincts – would be important. She had led him to some posies growing in the Arl's garden and picked a bunch of purple flowers that smelled nice and looked rather pretty. Alistair had almost mentioned the rose in his pack, but chosen to keep it a secret, unsure he wanted to share something that precious just yet.

Mastodon was lolling outside in some straw, enjoying the morning sunshine. When he caught sight of Alistair, the hound grinned, his tongue dangling out of one side of his mouth as he held his forepaws in the air and wagged his tail. "Hello, old friend." Alistair patted the dog's head and was rewarded with a contented, "Whuff!" before Mastodon rolled over on his other side again and snuggled into the warm fodder for a little nap.

Horses whinnied from inside the stables; Alistair poked his head in, allowing some time for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. A nutty, pleasant scent of clean stalls filled his nostrils. The wood above him was worn in some places, allowing shafts of sunlight to shine through. It was peaceful and quiet, filled with hushed sounds of hooves shifting, horses chuffing, and the crunch of hay being eaten with gusto. Charlotte was nowhere to be seen, so Alistair hesitantly walked in, searching around him. "Hello? Is anyone here?"

There was a brief pause, then Charlotte appeared from one of the stalls. She had a brush in her hand and wore a loose tunic belted over trousers. Some hair had slipped from her braid and caught pieces of straw. In the dusky light, she looked flushed, her eyes glittering softly as she took him in.

"What is it, Alistair?" Charlotte tried not to betray her disappointment; she had been finding much peace in taking care of her mount, something she had not been able to do since before Arl Howe attacked. The groom and squire had initially been most insistent that she rest while they took care of it, but following one of her scorching gazes, they had admitted defeat and left her to it. Her mount, Keirstrider, was a beautiful steed and she enjoyed caring for him before their journey together and becoming acquainted as she brushed him to a gleaming shine and fed him some hay. Now, she would have to think about all the fears that had been roiling in her mind since they was interrupted by Leliana this morning: Was he really going to kiss her? What would she have done? Was he kissing her because he felt pity for her? Did he really feel the same way she did? Could she be with anyone, now that she was a Grey Warden? Was that even allowed? She wrung the brush between her hands, trying to channel her agitation so he wouldn't see.

"Well, I…" The young man trailed off nervously; Charlotte noticed with surprise that he carried a bouquet of flowers – hyacinth, fresh from the stem. "Is that for me?" She inquired; her blush was lost in the shadows cast by the loft above them.

Alistair looked at the bunch as if he hadn't realized it was there, then registered what her question meant the thrust them forward eagerly, "Yes! Yes, here you go." He handed them over without ceremony, watching her reaction carefully for any sign of unhappiness or displeasure. Charlotte drew them close to her face and breathed in the scent she loved and knew well; Mother had always made sure her gardeners grew hyacinth and sweet peas, as well as roses, so that their summers and springs would smell like heaven every year. For a moment, the smell brought her back to times spent with her family, enjoying the grounds and laughing together; her eyes watered unexpectedly.

"Oh, did I get the wrong kind?" Alistair asked worriedly, silently kicking himself for his mistake. Charlotte shook her head, smiling. "No, it's just… they remind me of my mother." She inhaled deeply again, making an effort to get her tears under control; she didn't want to sully his gift with her dark mood. Confused, Alistair's shoulders lowered unhappily. "Oh," was all he could think to say in response.

Alistair waited a little while, letting her take time with her own thoughts, before remembering Leliana's instructions and driving on. "So, what were you doing in here?" _Idiot! That wasn't what you were supposed to say! Focus!_

Charlotte glanced above the petals held to her face; the effect was rather alluring, her richly green eyes contrasted against the pretty purple, and Alistair involuntarily leaned closer. "I was just preparing my horse. I like to get to know an animal before I ride it." She indicated the stall with one hand, where a magnificent steed was staring at Alistair questioningly, obviously impressed with an equally large specimen for his breed. Alistair approached the horse cautiously, holding out one hand for him to smell, before stroking one hand down his snout in greeting. "You, sir, are very handsome." He told him, and the horse whinnied softly in response.

"His name is Keirstrider," Charlotte said, coming to stand very close behind. Alistair's heart picked up speed when he smelled the scent of chamomile and rose mixing with the flowers; her skin was warm and radiated heat, something he could feel on small patches of his body not protected by his armor. He tried not to shudder at the thought of what it would be like to touch her with his hands, how hot her flesh would be. "He's beautiful and he knows it." She smiled affectionately at the horse, who blew air through his nostrils into her face. A horse hug.

"He seems to like you, what did you do, give him carrots?" Alistair smiled at her with amusement; it was a lazy, crooked grin that made her stare at his lips a fraction longer than necessary. When her eyes rose back up to his, she saw heat and questioning there, as if he had read her reaction correctly and was wondering whether to respond to it directly.

"Charlotte, I-"

"Alistair, you-"

They both stopped, hesitant and unsure. Before he could lose another opportunity, Alistair interrupted her second attempt.

"Wait, please, let me get this out." Uncomfortable, but determined, Alistair took one of Charlotte's hands and pulled her closer, ignoring the surprised look she gave him and focusing on her actions, as Leliana had instructed. She came willingly, so he took that as a good sign and continued.

"I know what almost happened last night may have startled you." He began, trying to remember the exact words Leliana had drilled into his brain for an opening after he blundered through several rejects under her increasingly stony expression. "But I wanted to tell you that, if it made you uncomfortable, you've nothing to fear from me. I am with you until the end, kiss or no kiss. That being said," he forced himself to look directly into those eyes, deep like the ocean and glittering like finely-spun glass. "If you feel… differently, I'd like to know. Please." He gulped and waited, hoping that his rehashing of the words – after all, he hardly sounded like someone who would use the words "you have my undying allegiance," as Leliana had dictated – would still adequately impart the message.

Charlotte looked at the flowers, then his face, before laughing nervously. "I… I don't know what to say. Maker, that's a strange feeling!" She tittered again, her cheeks a bright magenta. Alistair's brows rose in surprise.

"The answer isn't no?" He asked in amazement, feeling the beginnings of a grin on his face.

Charlotte was radiant with color; it was amazing, that someone normally so assertive and sure couldn't even look him in the face. Shyly, she shook her head, then peeked from underneath her lashes and curved her lips into an inviting smile. Confident now, Alistair grinned widely back and gathered her into his arms, being careful not to squash her flowers.

"So, was it my wit or handsome charm that ensnared you?" He inquired and she laughed, relaxing against him as he enjoyed her, taking in the fact that this woman might actually feel something for him as he did her. Softening, Alistair stroked her face with one hand, studying her every feature as she watched him, her eyes curious and a little sad.

"I've never felt this way about anyone," she confessed suddenly. Alistair blinked.

"I… I had suitors, but none of them moved me. In the short time we've been together, you've meant more to me than any of them. Thank you for being such a loyal friend." Charlotte smiled at him, her eyes crinkling at the corners; Alistair was silent with disbelief that she could be saying such things – saying what he felt for her, not what she felt for him. It was impossible.

As the silence thickened, the tension between them built and Alistair stared at her lush mouth, his eyes hooded with desire. Both hearts pounding, they drew closer and searched the other's face for signs of resistance. When he saw none, Alistair cupped her face in his hand and bent to her, lightly brushing his lips against hers, before pulling back to check her expression. Her eyes were closed, face tilted up, and one hand wrapped securely around his shoulder for support. With a moan, Alistair lowered his mouth to hers once more, melding them together, then opening his mouth to slide his tongue against hers. They touched for the briefest of moments, and then he drew back with a shudder, trying to be a gentleman and not push her too far. He closed his lips and sipped of hers once more before releasing her, both of them flushed and breathless.

"We'd better get ready; I'm sure Sten has filled our packs by now and is waiting impatiently for our return." Alistair's voice was husky; he trailed light fingers along her temple and kissed her forehead, shivering with pleasure when she mimicked his movements on the back and then front of his neck. He had never known it could be like this – how much he could want someone. Charlotte felt similarly, disoriented by the heat she felt for him. They separated with effort, still holding one another's hands before finally allowing that contact to drop away.

"You're right," she agreed, smoothing her hair back and hoping she didn't look as dizzy as she felt. "I'll just put these things away in the tack room and then be right behind you." She made the mistake of meeting his gaze; her breath hitched and they stared at each other for a prolonged moment, before Alistair shook himself like a dog coming out of water and tried to gather his wits. "Yes, yes that sounds good. See you in a few minutes." He walked away, his back stiff. Charlotte watched after him in disappointment, thinking it would have been nice if he'd said something in response to her declaration, or even offered a parting kiss. As she turned to put the brush away, she suddenly felt a tug at her waist and spun around, facing a grinning Alistair who grabbed her close and tilted her head back, his eyes dancing.

"Give us one more kiss then, for the road." Beaming, she obliged him.

* * *

The Imperial Highway wound long and unforgiving ahead of them, although it was still lined with grass as green as an emerald and blooming flowers, soon to be trampled down and blackened beyond recognition by the tainted feet of monsters. Their horses' flanks chafed at their legs after so many weeks without riding, and the sun was hot above them, its stare unyielding on their damp brows. Most of them were thirsty, seeking the next source of clean water from their mounts as they cantered down the road. And food would be most welcome; it had been hours since they ate breakfast at the castle and even the stomachs of those who were not Grey Wardens rumbled in protest.

Alistair didn't care. He was too happy.

Sten scowled on the path ahead of them, too large for any of the Arl's steeds. It was fortunate that the Qunari were well-known for their hardiness, as it allowed the rest of them to keep a moderate pace while Sten followed them on foot, occasionally badgered into a rest by Charlotte, who watched over all of them with the shrewdness of a mother hen. Alistair grinned at her back, his joy so pure not even Leliana's teasing could spoil his enjoyment. Charlotte wanted him; for the first time in his life, something felt like it was going right.

Sensing his stare, the young woman turned surreptitiously to glance at him in askance, her eyebrows raised to impart an air of severity for possible indiscretion. She failed to hide her returning smile, however, which made Alistair grin even wider, giving him a goofy appearance. Charlotte laughed quietly to herself and turned away, her back somewhat straighter as she sat high with excitement, awaiting the next moment they could steal away for some privacy and more kissing. Alistair awaited it just as eagerly, trying hard not to let himself go wild with anticipation.

"Let's stop to eat," Charlotte ordered, slowing Keirstrider to a dignified halt. "Do you hear that stream? Maybe we can finally get some more water." Gracefully, she dismounted and collected others' waterskins, tailed by a knowing Leliana who had no intention of letting her friend go to the water without spilling the beans on her and Alistair. For his part, the former Templar stayed far away from any female conferencing; he knew well enough to remain ignorant of their dissection of his performance.

"So?" Leliana demanded from a smug Charlotte, who did not answer. Intrigued, Morrigan followed languidly behind, studying the landscape for a good place to perch later when she was on watch. Being a hawk was most helpful against sneaky intruders.

"So what?" Charlotte retorted, bending on one knee to dip her hands in the water and rinse her warm face. Sighing with contentment, she allowed the water to trickle down her throat, leaning her head back to give enough room so that it might cool the sweaty skin underneath her gambeson.

"You know perfectly well!" Leliana danced on her toes, overexcited. "Tell us!" Morrigan sneered with distaste at her undignified display; taking a different tack, she said, "Of course, I can imagine the various ways an encounter with that…_man _could go wrong, so we only have concern for you." She smiled as if to belay any suggestion to the contrary, her aurulent eyes shining with amusement.

"Morrigan!" Charlotte chastised, irritated. "Nothing went _wrong_ and you two should mind your own business!" Although she tried to look forbidding, Charlotte fought off a smile that lit her entire face when she finally gave in. Leliana whooped triumphantly at the sight of it and kissed her with a huge _smack _on the cheek. "_Entre deux c_œ_urs qui s'aiment, nul besoin de paroles! _I am so happy for you." Charlotte waved her away bashfully, secretly delighted by their attentions. Morrigan smirked, one hand on her curvaceous hip. "Well, tis not to my taste, but if it pleases you then I am glad."

Still grinning like a fool, Charlotte bent to dip the waterskin in the river when her instincts froze her in place, everything on high alert. Without thinking, she dropped the leather bottle onto the ground and retrieved one of her daggers, eyes sweeping the landscape for the source of her unease. "Morrigan," she spoke in a low voice. The witch understood; quietly, she retreated to the edge of the woods, where she transformed and flew into the sky, using the much sharper vision of a hawk to discern the creeping threat. Charlotte drew out her second blade.

Leliana went back-to-back with Charlotte, also drawing her weapon of choice - a long bow - as they turned, listening and looking for any sign of aggression. When they were a fair distance from the water, at least enough that someone couldn't push them in, they stopped, barely breathing. The wind whispered over the water and surrounding valley, making pretty waves in the grass; the waves seemed alive to Charlotte, watchful and excited as they followed her reaction to whatever they harbored in their long fronds.

"In the grass," Leliana's lips almost didn't move, her eyes fixed about three hundred feet ahead of them in the field. "I know." Charlotte tried to mimic the lack of movement, pretending to be interested in the woods, so that whoever sought to do them harm would not realize she was ready to attack. A loud caw startled her and Morrigan landed, transforming mid-descent, her expression irritable as she strode over to be next to them.

"Twas a man, but he is here no longer." She huffed dismissively, glaring into the distance. "He saw my approach and fled; evidently, he fears magic. If we move quickly from this place, I doubt he will threaten us."

Charlotte still felt unsure; whoever who had watched them had not felt like other men she had fought thus far. He watched like a predator, not like a bandit who attacked for gold and trinkets, or darkspawn who did not watch at all. This man, she felt strongly, was attacking for something else.

"Let us be wary, nonetheless." Charlotte replied, coming out of her defensive stance and sheathing her weapons. "Anyone clever enough to know when to run away is an opponent you do not want to meet unguarded." She and Leliana exchanged anxious looks, while Morrigan raised an imperious eyebrow in the direction the man had taken, her chin jutted out in defiance.

* * *

Zevran hurried through the field, still in a low crouch as he wove his way back to the others. He had been scouting the Grey Wardens for a day now and was disturbed to discover they were going to be harder to kill than he had originally imagined. Eyes narrowed with concentration, he followed the path of his previous footsteps back to camp. Yet another reason he would be relieved to return to the city: fewer sticks and other bits of nature to leave impressions, evidence of his presence.

"We need to hire more men," he announced without ceremony when he entered the camp. Nunis had been on watch and seen him arrive, cutting through the trees along his left flank and entering the overcast space to join the rest of the cell. They had found a dip in the ground housed by many trees growing close together and made camp there, hoping to rest awhile and watch Charlotte's band from afar. The group proved hardier and more determined than Zevran had anticipated, so Lily, Asher, and Jonshai were packing up to keep up with them. Nunis' eyes glowed in the dim light that managed to snake through the trees, her pointed ears poking through dark hair that had been cut short and blown attractively in the wind. Zevran had been working on her, but to no avail…. As of yet, anyhow.

"We can handle them without help," Lily sneered, yanking her pack strap over one shoulder. Zevran disregarded her, addressing the group.

"Their force is greater than we were originally told," he explained, his voice curt with authority. "We will not only have to kill the Grey Wardens, but their companions as well, or face the possible testimony of witnesses." Zevran did not relish the thought; though he did his job well, it had become increasingly tiresome as of late, even more so on this particular mission. Lily's voice grated at him again and he suppressed a wince, weary of her nasal petulance.

"Then we attack at night while they sleep; we do not need more _babysitting, _Zevran." Her nostrils flared in her pale face, giving the effect of a haughty dragon, only without the smoke. Considering what a foul creature she was, he wouldn't put breathing fire past her. Zevran stared her down, then nodded to Jonshai and Asher; "Have you any experience with poisons?" Jonshai nodded, while Asher shrugged. "Some," he admitted, his rough baritone suspicious. "What do you intend?"

"Mix together some elixir of Nightshade and Deathroot extract. We'll need both for our weapons." The first would incapacitate its victim, causing mental confusion and stumbling. In those most vulnerable, it also caused hallucinations, which Zevran knew from practice left a target entirely open to attack, with not even the strength of their fear saving them as their muscle control began to fail. The second was a killer; he who was stabbed with a dagger dipped in Deathroot extract died within minutes. Both would aid them in their mission, but the trouble of an adequate cover story still remained. Zevran turned to Lily.

"What parts of the road would you avoid around this place?" he asked. Zevran stood above her on a swell in the ground, his amber eyes shining with equal brilliance to Nunis' despite the lack of direct sunshine. Elven beauty never failed to astound humans, and Lily was no exception. This, coupled with her memories of what that man could do in a bed… and out of it…. Left her momentarily speechless. Finally, she muttered a response.

"Off the highway, three miles ahead, there's a cliff ledge often used for ambushes against travelers. You can almost guarantee that a group of bandits lies in wait there." One of the few useful things Lily had to offer was her extensive travel experience in Ferelden. Zevran did not know the specific conditions, only that she had been trained in Antiva then left here to complete smaller missions that required a lot of… relocating on her part. Considering what he knew about her, he was not surprised no one welcomed her in one place for very long.

"Good. We must go there. Bring all the gold you have."

* * *

The women joined Sten, Alistair, and Mastodon, who had curled up on a patch of grass in the shade and begun eating without them. When they approached, Alistair began to apologize for not waiting, then saw Charlotte's face and dropped his cheese sandwich. Mastodon eyed it beadily, his entire body tensed with self-discipline as he licked his chops and restrained himself from gobbling it up while no one was looking.

"We're being followed," Charlotte told him, her face creased with worry. "We need to get moving again as soon as possible." Alistair reached out one hand and stopped Charlotte as she bent to begin packing up, surprising her. Gently, he pulled her away from the others while they sat with Sten and began to make their own lunches.

"Charlotte," he beseeched quietly. "We haven't even eaten – _you _haven't eaten, and we need to let the horses rest. What is going on? Why do you think we're being followed?"

Impatient, she tried to brush him off. "Because we saw something by the river and Morrigan went scouting and said it was a man. We have to go before he brings others with him." She reached for her pack again. Alistair hesitated, not wishing to anger her or seem forward after the intimate time between them that morning, but realizing that she was beginning to act rashly under pressure. He tried a different approach.

"Alright, let the other just finish their meals, otherwise there will be resentment and bellyaching, which you know will slow us down." He made his face as innocent as possible while Charlotte scrutinized him for trickery; when she _harrumphed_ and relented, he let out a quiet breath of relief. With an easy smile, he took her hand and tugged it gently, stroking her palm with the pad of his thumb. "You need to eat too," he appealed to her with a tilt of his head and that crooked grin that she seemed unable to resist. To his delight, she softened a little and smiled, her composure still reluctant but her resistance less. "If I know anything about being a Grey Warden, you're starving right about now. Am I right?" She grumbled, kicking with one foot and trying not to look at him, her beautiful eyes sliding away. Amused, he tugged at her again, bending down to look into her face. "I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you." He affected a polite tone, making his eyes wide and guileless, though they twinkled with the beginnings of mirth.

"Yes," she replied more evenly, restraining her own humor. "I am hungry. But quickly, I don't want who ever that was catching up with us." Alistair grinned and, on impulse, bent and kissed her, pulling back before he realized what he'd done.

"Oh, _please_, we're eating!" Morrigan's catty voice carried over to the blushing Wardens. In a fit of bravado, Alistair kissed her again, then glared triumphantly at Morrigan, who rolled her eyes and feigned being disgusted (although, in her case, it could have been genuine). Leliana grinned at them both while she finished her food and Sten was impassive, not disapproving, but not approving either. Mastodon whined pitifully, eyes still trained on Alistair's sandwich.

"Are you hungry too, you shameless beggar?" Charlotte teased, dancing ahead to join them. Alistair watched her with a smile, relieved she was happy, and completely unaware of the eyes all around them.

* * *

Zevran made sure that the Wardens were not going to move; when they began to ready themselves for more traveling, he cursed to himself and debated what to do. Lily could not be trusted, so she would be with him. Jonshai was proving to be a useful scout; he would follow the group and leave a trail behind that Zevran could follow. Their horses had enjoyed plenty of rest and food. Jonshai's would be tied to Asher's along with Nunis' so that she could accompany Jonshai in tracking their targets. For now, Zevran would have to take what he had gathered from his own group to appease the coterie of bandits to their cause.

Zevran mulled over what he had witnessed earlier while Lily sulked ahead of him, leading the way. In spite of her first trick with the poisoned coin, she had proved not especially clever since then, but Zevran was careful not to become complacent around her. She was the kind who'd sneak in an attack when you were sleeping or had your back turned – not that he couldn't say the same of himself, of course. He just did it with more style.

That was what had drawn him to the group of lovely maidens by the side of the river; style, beauty. The mage was especially alluring, her dark hair and glowing eyes making him chuckle at the possibilities of such an _interesting _woman. Her transformation had truly impressed him and he wondered at the uses of such a skill in a cell of assassins. The short-haired one seemed competent with a bow, but it was the other he fingered for a Warden. She had sensed him almost immediately when he got close and had been intelligent enough to never betray her interest in any one direction. Clever, if wasted on a man with his training. This was not a group of people to engage without strategy; they were creative and possessed abilities he couldn't predict. Therefore, he had to make himself and those working alongside him easier for him to read. If you cannot have certainty in your opponent, create certainty in yourself. As long as they employed good methods and followed an intelligent plan that took the Wardens' powerful group into account, they had better chances of success.

The real fly in the ointment, as it were, was how to make it look like an accident – or rather, an unfortunate end that no one could have predicted or say, orchestrated. That's where his friendly mercenaries came in – if he could convince them.

After a time, they came around a curve that wrapped around the side of a hill, which rose into what could be conceived of as a small cliff. Zevran walked cautiously, eyes peeled for the slightest hint of movement. When it came, he was ready.

"Halt! Give us all you've got and nobody gets hurt!" A leader ran forward on the lip of a ledge, backed up by several bowmen and a few others who Zevran already knew lurked in the bushes behind him. Raising his hands, Zevran smiled charmingly, trying to exude a relaxed and friendly attitude. No one gets hurt? What a terrible lie to tell.

"Greetings, my good Ferelden. I come to you with a proposition." Zevran kept his hands open to show his sincerity, while the bandit above regarded him in amusement. "Do you now? And what would that be?" With what he obviously thought was a subtle signal, the man ordered his warriors in the bushes to ready themselves. Zevran hoped killing them would not be necessary; they needed as many of them alive as they could get. Beside him, Lily crouched defensively, hands twitching to reach for her weapons as she took in the various threats around her. Zevran stayed her with one hand, then gestured enthusiastically at the men above.

"One that promises much gold and opportunity!" He called, hoping that sounded grand and intriguing. "But only if we can work together, cooperatively. I would prefer not to have to kill anyone to prove my point." He smiled again, but it did not reach his eyes and the leader studied him for a moment, unconvinced, but curious in spite of himself.

"And what is there to stop me from taking all your wealth from you now and leaving you in the dirt?" He inquired, one eyebrow raised in a challenge. Zevran showed his teeth, sliding his left hand back and down, while raising the other to distract the men on the ledge. "As I said, my friend, I'd prefer not to have to show you, but I will if you order your men to attack me and my comrade. If you decide to be peaceful, then we can work together without trouble. The latter would be preferable, no?" Zevran waited, giving him one last chance to be sensible. The man smiled, but his hand waved languidly, and Zevran turned to receive the oncoming attack.

Without hesitation, Zevran threw a bomb containing acid into the group rustling from behind the bushes. The men raised their arms defensively, but too late. The acid ate away their lungs before they even fell, bodies twitching, their skin melting and screams gargling into silence as they convulsed on the ground and died.

Lily had withdrawn her daggers and rolled to avoid a hail of arrows. Zevran ran, crouched low, up the side of the hill too quickly for the men above to anticipate him. Before they could close ranks against him, he had their leader from the back of the throat, daggers poised to penetrate his neck or gut at a moment's notice.

"Alright! Alright! I'll hear your proposal!" Zevran was pleased to see more men emerging below, slowly moving forward as they awaited the fate of their leader. Lily whirled, left in a vulnerable position between a host of archers and a force of armed men. She glared at Zevran, furious he had abandoned her. He smirked, certain of his victory.

"Be sure now, my friend," he warned, "If you attempt to turn on me again, whatever your men do, you will not live to see it." He twisted the blade against the man's throat and watched with satisfaction as he trembled at the sight of his own blood.

"I swear it!" Most men, in Zevran's experience, were cowards when faced with their own mortality. It was one of those conditions he could count on in his work. Not yet satisfied, he jerked his head at the other bandits. "Order them off," he demanded. The man nodded immediately, calling to his comrades to stand down. They did so, reluctantly, the chink and chime of their weapons reassuring Zevran as they cast them into a pile and drew back out of their reach, according to Zevran's orders.

"Now that is done, let us talk business." Zevran let the leader go, brushing him off helpfully as the man scrambled to gain some distance. He smiled nervously, making Zevran feel more at ease. The man really was a coward, so he would be easy to lead – and to dispose of later.

"I have a job that, as it turns out, requires more force, if you understand my meaning. I am willing to pay you a handsome sum if you and your men help me take this particular company of mercenaries down." He decided not to mention their true nature; if the bandits knew they were going up against Grey Wardens, they would most certainly refuse. The man considered, and asked the only question that seemed important to him: "How much is it worth?"

Zevran studied his nails with boredom, stretching his hand languidly as he shrugged. "Thirty sovereigns?"

There was a collective gasp; these men rarely saw that type of gold in one endeavor, it was a sum that would feed them for over a month. The bandit commander smiled broadly, chuckling to himself. "Do you think I'm a fool? No one has that kind of coin. At least not someone who doesn't have his own set of coffers." He was rewarded with a series of hoots and mirthful laughter from his coterie, who grinned in anticipation of Zevran's humilation.

Zevran reached around his waist and pulled forth a pouch that jangled with encouragement. He dumped half its contents into the commander's hands, watching with satisfaction as he stared in awe at the fifteen sovereigns that poured out of his cupped palms and onto the ground. "Shall we say, half now, half later? Plus loot, of course." Zevran was cool. The leader looked up at him in astonishment, opening his mouth and then closing it without a sound. "Oh," Zevran added, "If you tell anyone of our arrangement….." His grin stretched from one ear to the next, teeth shining in the sunlight, both beautiful and ghastly. The gulping bandit only had to see Zevran's eyes filled with malice and the shine of a blade turning in his hand to know which fate he would prefer.

* * *

"And that is how the Dalish came to be in our modern day. It is sad, no? Shartan's loyalty was not enough for the Chantry after Andraste's death; they wanted all elves to submit to their lore and practices for the rest of time. It is one of the few things about the Chantry that truly disturbs me." Leliana pulled on her reins to veer slightly to the right in order to avoid a hole in the road. Behind her, the others listened thoughtfully, with the exception of Morrigan; she was irascible about riding a horse and rolling her eyes at what she felt was religious claptrap thinly veiled underneath a historical tale. Morrigan sighed in frustration.

"Must I continue riding this beast? His flanks chafe and it impedes my ability to spellcast in an emergency. I could do so much more efficiently if I were airborne." She directed this question again at Charlotte, who tried her best not to lose patience.

"Morrigan, that is not an ability that just anyone can witness. We must be cautious. And, if you are injured, we will need another way to transport you should that be necessary. Please, do not ask me again. I beg you."

Morrigan wrinkled her nose, but kept her peace. Alistair, who was still fixed on Leliana, brought his horse slightly forward in order to see her better and – everyone suspected – to be closer to Charlotte. Curious, he inquired, "Leliana, how do you know so many stories? You're like a traveling minstrel!" Leliana had told many stories in their short time together, most delighting in those of adventure and romance.

Leliana's laugh bubbled prettily. "Well, maybe that's because I was, once upon a time!" Alistair's eyebrows raised, something about this evidently interesting him. "Really? Then how did you become a cloistered sister?"

Leliana shrugged, "I came upon the chantry in Lothering during a terrible storm not long after I had come home to Ferelden. I liked it so much there, I chose never to leave." Although her voice was even, something about her stiff facial expression and closed manner told Charlotte this was another of many stories the woman had told. It seemed the mystery of her past was something she preferred to remain hidden, which only piqued Charlotte's interest even more. Apart from the fact that she liked Leliana and wished to know more about her, it was also a matter of safety: if they were to rely upon one another in moments of life and death, surely it would be more sensible to know a bit of each other's backgrounds? Charlotte wasn't sure what circumstances could lead her to have doubts about the woman, but if she continued to refuse to share where she came from, that alone would give her pause. She resolved to revisit it at a later time, when they could speak more privately.

As was becoming custom, Sten marched ahead, his face raised to the sun in a scrutinizing grimace that also appeared to be signature for the Qunari. They had managed to find two helmets big enough to make one for Sten in Redcliffe, with the assistance of Owen. Although it was ill-fitting, it provided protection Charlotte was glad he now had, as she worked to get all those in the group properly outfitted. Mastodon swaggered next to the Qunari, chest puffed in pride at their budding friendship. The Mabari had been recognized by Sten as a true warrior, and Mastodon admired him in return.

Their second day was nearly over; they had traveled a good distance to the Circle, much to Charlotte's relief. At the next sight of a suitable river or stream, they would make camp. Thus far, they had been lucky enough not to encounter any bandits. A few Darkspawn stragglers had attacked since yesterday, but been easily taken down. Thus far Charlotte had not witnessed the forces she was anticipating, which had prompted her to question Alistair about the progression of a Blight. He had shrugged, equally confused, saying he had never experienced a Blight either and therefore was no more prepared for what to expect. She had not found this comforting.

"How are you holding up?" Alistair leaned to murmur quietly to her, his face warm with concern. Charlotte smiled, in truth a little weary. "I will be glad when we can camp for the night, but I am well. And you?" She longed to reach out and touch him, but restrained herself, still embarrassed of drawing attention to this new aspect of their relationship.

"I am _very_ well," he grinned, his hazel eyes twinkling. Charlotte suppressed a giggle and shook her head; she had never noticed it before, but his eyes had flecks of green in them. Pleased with her, himself, and life in general, Alistair sat back on his mount, his shoulders high with pride and excitement.

And then, Charlotte sensed something.

Much like by the river, it came suddenly and occupied her attention completely. She noticed Sten stiffen at the point of their party, his face wrinkling in concentration as he obviously also picked up on the nearby threat. No one else seemed to be bothered; Morrigan was sulking about not being able to fly, Alistair was grinning, and Leliana appeared to be lost in her own thoughts. Charlotte halted, signaling the others as Sten ran back, closely followed by Mastodon, who had grown very serious in response to her mood change. Ahead, a bend in the path turned and widened; whatever lay behind was camouflaged by a large rock and the rise of a hill. Around them was open land, peppered with trees. The wind blew, and Charlotte felt as if the trees were whispering, their branches waving like hands, warning them to stay away.

"What is it?" Alistair's face was now businesslike, his tone quiet as his eyes searched around them for the source of her alarm. Leliana was somber, awaiting Charlotte's orders.

"Little warden, do you also feel it?" Sten rumbled, his violet eyes piercing as he examined her face for cleverness or wisdom. Charlotte focused on her senses, extending them out to help her concentrate. She had become aware that the Qunari was testing her and wished very much not to fall below his already low assumptions. She listened to the wind and felt for _something_, it was inexplicable. The hum she felt when Darkspawn were nearby – though not yet as strong as Alistair's – was not there, so they were not to face that particular type of monster. Her eyes scanned their surroundings, watching every tree, blade of grass, and mound of earth for signs of unusual movement.

There. Charlotte's gaze snapped on the point beyond the bend, where she could not see but felt that _something _which spoke of a malignant sentience; of blood and danger.

There was no other way forward; they could go off the road, but it might add time to their trip and that was a luxury they did not have. Steeling herself, Charlotte dismounted and pulled Keirstrider to a nearby tree, tying his reins to one of the branches.

"Whatever it is," she told them in a low voice as the others mimicked her actions. "It's beyond that hill."

"Are we going to attack it?" Leliana whispered.

"Yes, but first, we need an idea of what it is." Charlotte looked at Morrigan, who smirked in contentment and transformed into a hawk. She perched on Charlotte's shoulder and nipped playfully at her hair, as if admonishing her for her refusal to allow this earlier. Charlotte peered at her, both nervous and a little annoyed, "Be careful. If it is that man, he may know of your ability. Do not let them see you." Morrigan chirped irritably and flapped her wings before waddling sideways down Charlotte's arm for a better take-off point. Charlotte raised it awkwardly, not having anticipated this and unsure of how best to assist the witch. Morrigan cawed and flew off, circling as she observed sights they could not see before heading towards a point overlooking their attacker. The others withdrew their weapons expectantly, now feeling as if malevolence leered from every corner.

A few moments later, the witch landed, her transition coolly graceful as she strode towards them and drew her staff. Head tilted back and eyes flashing dangerously, she told them what she saw:

"Tis an ambush."

* * *

Lily was impatient at Zevran's side; had he been able to hogtie and gag her, he would have done so, but it would have required too much work when he needed his focus on killing the Grey Wardens. Archers had been dispatched to fire from atop the hill, where one was poised to knock over a tree they had carefully prepared for toppling over the unsuspecting comrades, both to crush those unlucky enough to fall into its path and to block those left from escaping. Those bandits armed with swords and shields were distributed across the ground and near the hill as reinforcements to overwhelm the smaller group. Jonshai, Asher, and Nunis littered their ranks, weapons dipped in poison to get the job done after the criminal forces at their disposal had been taken down by their targets. Zevran smiled to himself, thinking how clever it had been to allow these _verme _to not only do most of the fighting, but most of the dying, as well.

They waited in silence for the Grey Wardens' approach, not a breath being heard among them. Zevran counted the seconds for their approach, having timed it to match their pace exactly as he had tracked them on the road. One minute; two minutes; three minutes passed and he began to feel a stirring of unease. They should have been here by now, they should have-

Lily hissed under her breath, daggers already drawn and eyes slicing him with contempt. "Your plan is failing! They are not here!"

Zevran was about to retort when an arrow suddenly thrust from Lily's neck, its point directed between Zevran's startled eyes. Lily froze, her gaze travelling in shock to the arrow, before rising to meet Zevran's one last time as she gurgled and fell in a heap on the ground. She was dead.

Zevran spun on one heel to watch as the tree fell with an almighty crash, the wood crackling and echoing in his ears. Archers tumbled, dead or screaming, from the hill onto the rocks below. Chaos erupted around him, men startled and shouting as swords clashed and shields bashed. Heart racing unpleasantly, Zevran saw her in the middle of it all, her face contorted with disapproval as she watched him, slowly pulling two daggers from her back and making steady progress toward him as she tossed aside other foes with an almost casual kick and cursory stab of her weapons.

"FOR THE GREY WARDENS!" A male voice erupted over the noises of battle; Zevran saw the male Warden descend on a group of men, his sword and shield arcing in a sweeping blow that knocked most of them back and killed several. The woman with the short, bright hair was on a rock high above the melee, firing arrow after arrow from her bow. The witch cackled with derisive laughter as she cast an enormous spell of electricity into the crowd; she glowed momentarily, seeming to pull strength from dead bodies that floated above the ground, then collapsed when she was finished, before she transformed into a bear and roared, spittle flying from her gleaming teeth, and charged into the remaining bandits below.

Zevran ran backward, spinning around those falling beside him, dodging their movements and letting them take the brunt of the attack. He saw Jonshai dead on the ground, one hand outstretched as if in askance, his mouth open and forehead marred with a trickle of blood. Asher was losing against an enormous Qunari, who roared nearly as loud as the bear as he brought his sword down onto the assassin's shoulder, cleaving him in half. A dog's bark echoed off the rocks and Zevran heard a scream; Nunis was also falling.

The female Warden had not forgotten him; one after the other, she took them down, her battle lust only for him as she carved a path through the men he had believed too numerous for her group to bear. The dratted woman archer was now also focusing on him and he cut an arrow in midair, the blades singing at the quick movement, the wood making a satisfying crunch as he tore it in half.

There was nowhere left to go; a rockface rose behind Zevran, a path to his left that would leave him exposed to the archer. The others of the group were still busy killing the remainder of his forces, but running into the fray would not provide safety. The female Warden was almost within his reach.

Planting his feet, Zevran took a quick inventory of his surroundings and braced himself for her attack. She was cutting down another bandit, her dagger planted deep in his chest. She withdrew it with a sucking sound of blood and flesh, the blade gleaming in the setting sun as it dripped. Scowling and now unimpeded, she circled him, twirling her daggers in each hand, watching his movements for signs of weakness.

Even as the adrenaline pumped through his veins, Zevran had to appreciate her prowess. This was not a woman to be trifled with. He chuckled to himself; if he was to die, at least it was to a worthy opponent. And a beautiful one at that.

Issuing a fierce battle-cry, she lunged, blades flashing so quickly Zevran almost had trouble tracking their movements. He parried, countered, danced back; she withdrew slightly, assessing him again. He could feel the archer's eyes at his back, but she had evidently decided to defer to their leader in this duel. Zevran attacked, clashing with one of her blades and setting her off-balance as he attempted to slice at her chest. One cut, and she would be dead. The Warden spun, bringing her dagger down to use the pommel against his wrist as he stabbed, causing him to cry out in pain and drop the weapon on the ground. Capturing his other arm with her own, the Warden kicked, knocking the wind out of him, before twisting his arm – his other blade fell - spinning again and lifting him – his shoulder cracked in its socket – so that the world sped by in a blur of brown and green until she brought him hard onto the ground. Zevran was briefly shocked and dizzy, trying to catch his breath, before a boot met his skull, and all was darkness.

* * *

Verme – Italian for vermin or rat

Gêne – French for embarrassment

_Entre deux c_œ_urs qui s'aiment, nul besoin de paroles! – Two hearts in love need no words, quote by Marceline Desbordes-Valmore. _


	21. The Silence of the Templars

"Uuuhhhh…." The world rolled around Zevran's eyes like a runaway carousel, before shuddering into focus. The sun was still setting, so he had not been out long. A painful straining in his back told him he had been hogtied; he nearly chuckled at the image of himself being tied up by a beautiful maiden. If only it were under better circumstances.

"Wake up, elf. I have some questions for you." A hand shoved at Zevran's right shoulder insistently; it was sore from the Warden's impressive move that had brought him into this vulnerable position. Fortunately, he did not seem badly injured, which was a plus. Shaking his head to clear it of fuzz, Zevran squinted into her face, waiting for his vision to improve as he regained consciousness.

The first thing Zevran saw were her eyes; they were a rich green, with golden flecks and seemed bottomless, like a pool. A little wrinkle between her eyebrows and the pursing of full lips bespoke waves of suppressed anger and disapproval. The skin around that wrinkle was as smooth as alabaster; loose strands of hair had worked free from her braid as a result of her earlier excursion. All in all, it was a pleasant sight to wake up to, even if it might be his last.

"Hello," he smiled, hoping to exude a little dazzling charm, even from his undignified pose on the ground. "It seems you did not kill me after all. How nice for me." The female Warden, much to Zevran's secret delight, seemed to suppress a smile in response to this brassy reception of his predicament. Her face remained stern, but there was a sparkle in her eyes that gave him hope. Behind her, the one he presumed to be the other Grey Warden glared at him with hostility, hovering protectively over his companion. Ah, was this camaraderie or something more?

"That remains to be seen," she replied finally, her expression smoothing slightly. "Who are you?"

Zevran shifted to try and get in a better position to converse. The archer immediately nocked an arrow and the witch prepared a ball of fire in her palm. By their side, a hound the size of a wagon growled menacingly. Zevran chuckled, "Fear not, my deadly vixens and furry friend. I am merely trying to get into a more comfortable position." They stayed ready, eyes following his every move as he lifted himself to prop on one shoulder and face her inquisition head-on. Wincing against his restraints, Zevran sighed and introduced himself. "My name is Zevran Ariani, an assassin of the Antivan Crows. Although not a very effective one, evidently."

The female Warden studied his eyes; her piercing gaze made him feel exposed, as if she could see things the others couldn't. "Who sent you and why?" she demanded.

"A gruff man and his little weasel, my dear lady. I could not tell you why. I think one may have been the King, but my clients' names are deliberately left unknown to me, for their own protection." Crows were not supposed to fail, but if they did it was best practice to ensure their failure only corrupted their own branch of the organization, and that it did not blacken the roots of the coterie itself.

"Loghain," the male Warden spat with disdain, kicking a nearby crate with so much force it shattered on impact. The man was built like a bull; Zevran watched his progress as he muttered with rage, finding appeal in his handsome face and brawny shoulders. Zevran turned back to the woman, intrigued. "You know of the man who was sent to kill you? How clever of you; I am many steps behind, it seems."

She had been regarding her comrade uneasily, now she turned to Zevran, regaining most of her composure. "We cannot be certain of anything without more information – what makes you think he was the King, Zevran?"

Her soft voice lulled him; she was very persuasive. He liked that in a woman; seeing his enjoyment of her, the woman leered back a little, wary of him. "Well, I was instructed to kill you in the palace. I only saw one man, but there was another. Even in shadow he seemed… imposing. He had a very deep, gruff voice. The one who ordered me around was a bully. He looked like a rat in nobleman's clothing."

The girl warden froze as if electrocuted; her companions saw her reaction and were clearly alarmed. Softly, she inquired. "He gave you no name?"

Zevran shook his head, "No, my lady, I am afraid not. But he and the man who I assumed to be King seemed close, as if they were working together." Her face went white, eyes wide with shock. Abruptly, she stood up and backed away from him, hands shaking at her sides.

"Charlotte?" the male Warden was concerned, approaching her hesitantly.

"Howe," she spat, now the one enraged. "It was Arl Rendon Howe. He is working with Loghain!" As Charlotte thought about it, it made sense. It sickened her to the core, but she could not deny the truth as pieces of evidence fell into place.

How convenient that her father, the second most powerful man in Ferelden along with Loghain, would be killed almost at the same time as the King himself, and the two people most likely to benefit from their untimely deaths would be left standing? And then, the last remaining chess piece that could check their mate, poisoned and left to die at the hands of an abomination, created with the help of a tutor sent by Teyrn of Gwaren to mentor the Arl's son? How easy would it be to allow that abomination to murder every last witness for him and sweep their ashes under the rug, with so much death and confusion the truth would be lost?

Alistair was a few steps behind, but light dawned in his face as well. He grabbed Charlotte by the arms, trying to calm her down. "Steady," he told her, his voice soothing and firm. "We must remain in control, Charlotte. Do not let those bastards make you weak with anger." Her eyes flashed as she clearly desired to fight him, but she could not argue against the wisdom in his words, especially since she had been the one saying these things to him not three days ago. Charlotte took deep breaths, covering her face with one hand as she fought for control.

Zevran lay, momentarily forgotten, on the ground. He examined this conversation with interest, getting a feel for the group dynamic and the woman in charge of his fate. So she was passionate, that much he had already discerned. But also wronged in some way; as he had suspected at the castle when he received his orders from the rat-man, there was more to this story than the King wanted Ferelden to find out. An opportunity occurred to him, but he bided his time. When it seemed a respectfully long enough pause had passed, Zevran cleared his throat to get their attention.

"Excuse me, I do not wish to bother you, but I would like to know what you intend to do with me?" He tried to be as polite as possible, with the intention of appealing to her good graces. The male Warden scowled.

"What do you mean, 'intend to do with you'?" He growled, coming away from Charlotte. "You die now."

Zevran pulled back reflexively as the warden withdrew his sword; just as the blade raised to cut Zevran asunder, a voice interrupted them. "WAIT!"

The warden stopped where he was, sword still above his head. Zevran lay poised for impact, but looked hopefully behind his attacker as Charlotte pushed her way through the group, who parted instantly. Charlotte grabbed her companion's arm and forced him to lower it; baffled, he complied, but clearly did not like it.

Charlotte's eyes locked on Zevran's; calmly, she asked him. "What could we do with you, precisely?" The male warden blurted incredulously, "What?!" but she ignored him, awaiting Zevran's answer. Zevran relaxed a little, rolling back towards her and answering in a genial tone.

"Many things, my dear Warden. I am skilled at making poisons and picking locks, among other things. I shall warn you should the Crows try something more... sophisticated. I could also just stand around and look pretty if you prefer." The elf smiled lasciviously, "Warm your bed…Fend off unwanted suitors, no?" He eyed the male warden with amusement, who stiffened angrily in response, his fist clenching visibly around the hilt of his sword. Zevran chuckled to himself.

Unimpressed, but eyes twinkling again, Charlotte raised one eyebrow. "Are you suggesting you join my ranks?" She looked around at her group of misfits and couldn't help but admit the elf had a point. Sten, who had remained impassive thus far, grunted with disapproval. Leliana also seemed to oppose this idea and interjected, "You are very willing to talk to us, assassin. Why should we believe you are not just using this as an opportunity to get closer and kill us by yourself?"

Zevran smiled at Leliana, winking. "I could not possibly kill you all by myself, my Orlesian flower. I would surely be killed in the process, and I like living." Morrigan snorted, crossing her arms and shaking her head with disbelief at the man's daring.

"So you are not loyal to your employer?" Morrigan asked with a sneer. Zevran shrugged, then winced at the bite of his restraints against the movement. "I am a very loyal person, truth be told, up until I must die for failing. If you would expect the same, then I come very poorly recommended, I suppose."

Seeing that this was winning him no favor, Zevran went for broke. "If you want to know, I was never really given a choice to join the Crows, my lady. They bought me when I was a child, for three sovereigns, I'm told – quite the bargain. Now that I have failed to kill you, my life is forfeit. I can either wait for them to kill me, or serve you. It is your decision."

This struck a chord; Zevran saw Charlotte's expression shift ever so slightly as she considered his words. After a moment, she shook her head. "You must think I'm royally stupid, to fall for a story like that."

Sensing victory, Zevran grinned. "I think you're royally tough to kill - and utterly gorgeous. Not that you'd be swayed by flattery, of course, but there are worse things in life than to serve the whims of a deadly sex goddess." His eyes danced and Charlotte snorted, shaking her head again at his gall.

"And what, pray tell, would you expect as a reward for your valiant service?" She drawled, eyebrow once again cocked with skepticism.

"Well, being allowed to live would be nice and would make me marginally more useful to you." Alistair chortled in spite of himself; Zevran smiled at him before continuing, "And, should you find you have no further use of me, then I go on my way. Until then, I am yours. Is that fair?"

Alistair coughed not too subtly. Charlotte nodded in response and gestured to the others.

"Alistair, come over here. Leliana, Morrigan – watch him." She glanced back at Zevran, curiosity still stirring in those malachite eyes, as Alistair and the hound padded off by her side. Morrigan and Leliana closed ranks over him, both humorless in their expressions. Behind the women, the Qunari glowered, hand on hilt. Zevran leaned back and grinned up at them.

"No, no, no, no, no." Alistair wasted no time making his feelings known. Charlotte took a deep breath to clear her head.

"I understand, believe me, and yet…" she looked back at the man, relaxed even as he was surrounded by hostile enemies, seeming at ease as if he were at a tea party instead of possibly awaiting his execution. She liked him; she didn't know why, but as with the others, there was something about him that made her gut say, _This one_. Of course, that had led to her recruiting a slightly unhinged Chantry sister of mysterious origin and known murderer, so she tried another tack.

"Think of it this way – if we don't take him with us, we run the risk of letting him go, losing track of him, and being attacked again. If we recruit him, we can possibly win some of his loyalty with good treatment and have protection against further assassination attempts." Eyes narrowing, she muttered, "I have no doubt in my mind Loghain will send more in his place." Alistair shook his head.

"Charlotte, this is too much of a risk," his voice was firm. "Surely you see that? He just tried to kill you, for Maker's sake!"

Charlotte softened as she understood: he was afraid for her. She stroked Alistair's arm, trying to ease some of his anxiety. This was becoming personal for him and she had to make an objective decision. "I know - but this isn't about how we feel about each other, Alistair, this is about what we need as Grey Wardens. Can you deny he is a good fighter?" Alistair made a face, still unconvinced, "But-"

"No, I believe this is the right thing. I understand your reservations and that is why we will be cautious, but in this I need your support as my comrade, not your protection as my…friend." Charlotte blushed, unable to say "lover". They had not become lovers yet; she wasn't sure how she even felt about that, having never been a lover before. Alistair evidently picked up on the subtext, because he also pinkened and became considerably quieter. After a time, he cleared his throat and nodded.

"…Alright, but we will take precautions. No going soft on him because you want to be kind. You're too good at that." He grumbled, unhappy but resigned, his eyes searching hers for some sort of reassurance. Charlotte smiled and patted his hand, taking caution in front of the others so as not to weaken their word, and went back to inform the group of their decision.

Zevran's attention was drawn back to the female Warden as she approached; her friends parted to allow her access to him. She drew a knife and for a moment, Zevran was sure he was dead. At the last minute, she bent swiftly to one knee and cut the ropes at his feet, pulling them away from his ankles and sheathing the knife at her waist. "We accept your proposal, Zevran." Her expression was wary, but there was warmth there too, fighting through the caution that Zevran thought most wise of her, considering. She helped him to his feet, then trimmed the rope dangling from his wrists which had been previously bound to the knots at his ankles. His hands were left tied; Charlotte indicated Leliana, who was carrying his weapons. "You get those back when you prove yourself worthy of my trust. If we have to fight anyone, just get out of the way until they're dead. Understood?"

"Most definitely, Warden. I am most grateful, especially so to be in such delightful company."

She gave him a _look_, her tone sardonic. "Don't push your luck. I could still kill you."

Zevran tutted, shaking his head with mirth. "These things you say; they must drive the men back home simply wild." Alistair reddened, glaring at him with contempt. Bored, Morrigan drifted away, sparing one glance of disgust for the wily elf. She was followed by a frowning Sten and amused Leliana; hesitantly, the hound sniffed his leg, growling suspiciously before he slunk away to be next to Charlotte.

"Such a warm welcome! I hereby swear an oath of loyalty and service until such time you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation. This, I swear." Zevran bent at the waist, nodding somberly, before bestowing her with another wicked grin, his amber eyes sparkling.

Charlotte, however, remained coolly amused. "Nice diction. Follow me closely, Zevran; it's going to be a bumpy ride."

* * *

The Queen twisted her hands in her lap, her back stiff with restrained tension. Erlina waited in the corner of the room, eyes trained on Anora; she was concerned for how the meeting with Teyrn Loghain was going to affect her mistress. Anora had been increasingly tense as of late and no news sent by the various informants in Denerim or in the castle seemed to please her – instead, every missive seemed to add another load upon her lady's shoulders, drawing her complexion of color and her body of appetite.

There was the distance clomp of heavy footsteps, followed by a rough opening of the chamber door. A messenger dispatched by Howe to watch over Loghain's movements panted in the Teyrn's wake, having failed to outrun the stern Regent to warn Anora of his impending arrival.

"Your Highness, the Teyrn of Gw-" The messenger was cut short by Loghain's impatiently waved hand. "That will be unnecessary, Gavin. Leave us; you as well, little maid." Anora narrowed her eyes, biting back a reprimand for addressing Erlina in such a disrespectful manner. Erlina looked to the Queen, who gestured for her to go. Unhappy, the elf curtsied to her mistress, before regarding Loghain nervously and hurrying from the room. When the door shut behind her, Loghain walked towards Anora, much softened in privacy.

"It is good to see you, daughter." He clasped her delicate shoulders and bent to kiss her cheek; Anora received the affection with a face like stone, angry that he had kept her waiting. Much needed to be said, and without the audience of that sneering toadie Howe, who seemed to lurk around every corner just when she needed to speak with Loghain alone. Howe was not a man to be trusted or, if her intelligence was anything to go by, underestimated.

"And you, Father. Please sit." Anora indicated the chair across from her. She had been embroidering most of the morning to appear occupied; her wooden hoop lay discarded by the chair. A fire had been lit in the hearth; although it was now almost Solace, with a cloying humidity growing outside, rain often lowered the temperature so that a bone-chilling dampness settled over every limb. Today was gray and wet, so Anora sat near the flames to keep warm, with a pot of tea steaming invitingly on the table.

Loghain offered the shadow of a smile as he took her in, eyeing the tea with a fond chuckle. "You're like your mother – she always enjoyed tea." He was wan; she had seen him increasingly worn since his return from Ostagar. What her spies had discovered shocked her; the fact that he still sat before her, making familiar remarks after what he'd done, shocked her more.

"Father, I have concerns and there can be no further delay in discussing them." Anora was brusque, trying to harden her heart against affection for the good of the Kingdom and – even more importantly – for the good of her father, whom she hoped to save from Howe's madness. Surely he could not have done these things on his own.

Loghain scrutinized her, shifting from doting to flinty, those blue eyes turning grey for the oncoming storm. "What is it, Anora? You look pale."

Anora hesitated, wavering over the best approach. The missives she had received over the last two weeks told a harrowing tale: that Howe had murdered the Couslands in cold blood without provocation; that elves in the Alienage were going missing at night, with no investigations being led by the city guard; that two Grey Wardens had survived the battle at Ostagar and were now deemed traitors and being hunted like common criminals; and the most disturbing of all… that her father had deliberately abandoned Cailan to be overrun by darkspawn on Ostagar's battlefield.

There were also whispers of the Arl of Redcliffe falling mysteriously ill, which seemed far too impeccable for Anora's tastes, considering the outrage Arl Eamon would have raised in response to Cailan's death. As she had nothing to fear and was innocent of any crime, this would not have bothered her, but if the rumors about the Teyrn were true, then he did have reason to worry. Anora knew her father; he was not an unreasonable man – he could be hard and uncompromising, but he was _not _a murderer. Howe, on the other hand, seemed entirely too capable of the sort of low behavior that turned monarchs into tyrants. Could his influence have led her father astray? And, if it had, why had he been able to secure the ear of one of the most powerful, intelligent men in Ferelden?

Deciding to approach him indirectly, Anora placed her hand over his, frowning softly and filling her eyes with love and concern. "Father, I fear for your health. You are not well."

Loghain patted her hand, his expression wry with amusement. "Thank you, Anora, for reminding me of my age, but I am quite well enough, thank you." Anora huffed impatiently, her brow crinkling as Loghain leaned away to pour himself some tea.

"You have a chalky pallor and the servants carry trays full of food from your room, where you never seem to sleep. Since you became Regent, you have been placing undue pressure on yourself. I may be your daughter, but I am also Queen and have been shouldering the worries of my country for years now." Anora leaned toward him, affecting an imploring posture. Softly, she reclaimed and squeezed his hand; the other held his teacup, which he raised to his lips. "Tell me what it is that troubles you and I will help."

Loghain's expression shifted once again; it bore that hardness she had come to despise. It was an expression that belonged to Howe and the events that had transpired since her father took him as his closest friend. It was the face that told her she had already lost before she begun, but Anora was not one to give up easily. Being carefully respectful, she drew back her hand and sat up straight, preparing to do battle with her father. He in turn placed his cup back onto the low table and sat back in his chair, draping one leg over the other. Anora knew her father – he was not a casual man. That stance couldn't have been any clearer to her than if he'd drawn his blade and shield. Anora's eyes narrowed.

"Anora," Loghain began, his signature growl soothing her against her better judgment. "I know it must seem unlikely to you that an old man can manage on his own, but I was helping Maric run this country before you were born."

Anora began to feel the ties on her temper loosening, "That is not what I meant and you know it."

Loghain sighed, then grunted a short chuckle. "Well, whatever you have imagined to be of great concern is obviously not as important as you believe, or I would have brought it to you. Rest easy, my daughter. Once I have brought the nobles in line, we will find you a new King and all will be well."

Anora stared at him in disbelief, momentarily disgusted by the way he dismissed her authority. "Bring the nobles into line? Father, what of the Darkspawn threat? What of the people being trampled down by the Blight?"

Loghain's calm repose cracked; his eyes flashed before settling into careful blankness again. "There is no Blight," he answered coolly. "Only Cailan's vanity demanded that it be so." Loghain looked away, his body tenser, the leg no longer draped but propped angularly over one knee as he grasped his chin with the opposite hand and stared away from her. Anora persisted, determined to make him see reason.

"But father, there is talk of _civil war. _My reports tell me Lothering has been destroyed. Does this not concern you?"

"Do not lecture me on priorities, Anora. I do what is best for all of us, what is best for Ferelden." His foot began to tick, eyes dark. His face twisted into an ugly grimace Anora had never seen before. Stirrings of fear began to flutter in her breast; what was happening to her father?

"Father" she began quietly, "We need help. Did Cailan not seek assistance from Orlais? We could-"

Anora was interrupted as Loghain slammed his fist into the arm of his chair with such force a loud _crack_ echoed inside her receiving chamber. "NEVER! Maric and I drove those bastards out! We will not roll out the welcome for them now!" Anora said nothing, stuck to the back of her seat, surprised as she was by his outburst. Loghain rolled his shoulders, affecting an easing of tension, but it seemed his only coiled more strongly around him. The tick in him grew faster, his grimace more pronounced.

"No one remembers," he spat, his eyes almost black now, the blankness gone. "No one thinks about what it takes to run a country. What could threaten their _easy _lives." Irritable, Loghain rose from his seat to stand by the fire, huffing and muttering to himself. Anora tried again, her voice rising insistently. "Father, we cannot deal with this crisis alone – you cannot!"

Loghain grunted something between a chuckle and a snort. Coming away from the hearth, he faced Anora, his expression harsh. "You must have faith in me, Anora. No one understands it now, but they soon will. Just like your fool husband, the nobles will realize what truly threatens Ferelden."

This struck a chord which derailed Anora from her concern for the brewing civil war; slowly, Anora rose from her chair and whispered the question the entire Kingdom was asking: "Did you kill Cailan?"

The room was thick with silence. Crackles from the fire provided a comforting background noise; Loghain's eyes scanned the beautiful items in the room – the way the mahogany glowed, polished to a high sheen; the sparkle of the silver tea set; the rich colors in the hanging tapestries. And the beauty of his loving daughter, her glossy halo of golden hair wrapped in elegant braids at the base of her neck, those lovely blue eyes sparkling at him with her restrained fury as she awaited his answer. What a ridiculous question; Loghain chuckled to himself, then glanced at her again. Anora betrayed her feelings only through her trembling hands, balled into fists at her sides as she studied his madness.

"Of course not!" He retorted, waving his hand with dismissal. Loghain went back to his seat with a sardonic smile, indicating she should follow suit. Anora lowered herself into the padded chair, taking time to ease down, her dry throat swallowing convulsively.

"Now, have some tea, my daughter." Loghain patted her knee, his smile sincere. "All will be well; you will come to see that, in time. I do what is best for us all." He patted her knee again and retrieved his cup, helping himself to some of the small sandwiches on the table as he ignored her reaction to his denial. Anora stared at him, before finally reaching for her own cup, the uneven tinkle of china against china the only indication of her alarm. She had to think; this was so much worse than she had ever imagined. Anora closed her eyes, fighting a wave of nausea. She took deep breaths, working to steady herself after the unsettling spectacle of her father's increasing instability.

"Dear Anora, you look tired. Should I call that maid of yours?" Loghain had placed his cup and saucer on his knee, favoring it carefully as he leaned toward her and placed one hand on her shoulder. His eyes were full of love and concern; Anora's throat closed at his expression. She had no choice but to do what was right for her and her country, but he was still her father. She would do her best to protect him. She had to.

"Yes, Father. Thank you."

* * *

Zevran sat in front of the camp fire, his hands still bound and his feet cold despite hours of walking. Alistair had tied his binds to the back of his horse like a prisoner of war on his way to his execution. Zevran suspected the similarity in treatment had not been coincidental.

With a sigh, the elf had to admit he couldn't blame him; he had, after all, attempted to assassinate their entire force just the day before. He only hoped that Alistair would soon see reason and allow the tired elf to ride a horse the remainder of their journey together. It wasn't as if Morrigan really wanted to use hers, after all.

The witch was still busy circling the camp, casting protection spells. They had made their three day journey to Kinloch Hold as planned, but arrived just in time for dinner - far too late to call on the Knight-Commander. When Charlotte and Leliana went down to the local inn, The Spoiled Princess, to seek out room and board, they had returned with grim news.

"They know about Loghain's edict on the Grey Wardens." Charlotte dumped some fresh bread onto the cloth Morrigan had laid out for her ingredients to make dinner. Charlotte sat down with defeat near the camp fire, Leliana standing behind her, her expression hard. "We overheard some men talking about the bounty. It wouldn't be safe to stay there."

The news, while not entirely unexpected, was not welcome for the tired group. Despite being blessed with better camping equipment from Bann Teagan, everyone had come to enjoy the luxury of a bed and had been secretly hoping they could continue to enjoy it at the inn. Morrigan had snorted, but otherwise not deigned to comment. Sten was on watch, as was Mastodon, but the latter was entirely concerned with the venison Morrigan was trying to coax into a stew. Alistair, on the other hand, had plenty to say.

"That traitorous son of a goat, I'm going to rip his head off, he betrayed Duncan, etc. etc." Zevran listened for a time, then tuned out in annoyance. Alistair may have good reasons for his anger, but Zevran felt he should learn better restraint in expressing himself. After all, tipping your hand so fantastically could only leave you vulnerable to your enemies, no?

Morrigan completed her circle of the camp and returned to the pot in the middle of the fire. The stew smelled good and Zevran's stomach grumbled, gnawing for a good meal. The ache in his back from being tied was slowly becoming excruciating, but he did not complain, determined to win the trust of the female Grey Warden. She had given him a wide berth since they set off together, with Zevran trailing her compatriot like a cow being taken to market. He had, he felt rather wisely, chosen not to push himself upon anyone, instead trying to seem as inoffensive as possible, only speaking once to ask where they were going.

He was bored out of his mind.

The only excitement he had enjoyed was to witness the group taking down a troupe of darkspawn who attacked them a mile off the Imperial Highway within sight of Lake Calenhad's docks. They had just cleared Gherlen's Pass when the taint began to reveal itself in the foul, blackened grass and oily air thick with the scent of death. The Qunari seemed to have a particularly strong reaction to their presence and cleaved through them with merciless rage. Once the sizeable group was dispatched, Zevran watching from afar from behind the protection of Charlotte's massive hound, Charlotte approached the Qunari, alarmed.

"What in Thedas was that about?" She demanded, her weapons eliciting the thick drip of poisonous ichor. Zevran tried not to wretch at the malodorous blood of the darkspawn.

"That is not your concern." Sten shook ichor from his blade and stomped off, clearly angry about something he wouldn't share.

Now, Sten sat scowling outside the edge of camp, watching for further attacks from the fetid creatures promising to overrun all of Ferelden. Zevran studied him with interest, wondering what his earlier explosion had been about. A stoic warrior such as he would not fly into such a rage over nothing.

The crunch of approaching footsteps drew Zevran out of his reverie. He had been deposited at a distance from everyone else – just close enough to stay warm, but far enough so as not to feel comfortable making conversation. The sun had descended most of the way, leaving the sky a rich, cerulean blue that seemed close to bursting with the meeting of night and day coming together in one final farewell. An army of stars twinkled at the edges, led by a moon that glowed full. Against it, Charlotte was cast almost completely in shadow, up until her approach brought her close enough for Zevran to distinguish the details of her face and figure.

In one hand she carried a bowl; in the other, the same small blade she had used to release him from his ankle restraints. When she reached him, Charlotte bent to one knee and set the bowl next to her on the ground. Without a word, she grasped his wrists and slid the blade underneath the rope holding them, working its sharp edge against the braided fibers. Zevran watched in surprise, studying her solemn face and listening to the sound of metal scraping against twine. When the connection was severed, Charlotte cast the rope aside and gently pulled his wrists around so they were rested on his knees in front of him. Zevran felt the relief in his back, but said nothing, watching her with curiosity. Charlotte sheathed her dagger and withdrew a small container of poultice from a leather pouch at her hip. Not meeting his eyes, she spread some of the poultice on each wrist, her light fingers taking care not to rub too hard. That done, the poultice was neatly placed back in the pouch and Charlotte picked up his portion of stew and held it out, her eyes rising to meet his for the first time since they spoke yesterday.

"You must eat and get some rest. We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow." She pressed the bowl forward, her eyes boring into his, their enigmatic depths glittering with the light of the stars. Zevran gazed back, his eyes full of questions, before finally accepting the stew with a smile.

"Thank you." He replied, for once unable to come up with a witty riposte. This treatment was most unexpected. Charlotte offered him a shy smile, then rose and walked away, rejoining the group by the fire. Zevran's gaze hovered after her, fascinated by her mix of kindness and caution. Sensing hostility, Zevran glanced just beyond her and saw Alistair, glaring from a distance, obviously displeased. With grin that was wicked, Zevran saluted him with his bowl then dug into the warm, hearty stew.

* * *

The spire of Kinloch Hold, the tower where Ferelden's mages were all but imprisoned, rose above rocky shores into a grey sky. All had woken that morning to the threat of rain, the air crackling with unreleased pressure.

Charlotte sat with Alistair, quietly debating who to include in their diplomatic party. Sten and Morrigan seemed the most likely to get left behind; despite Charlotte's plan to invoke the Right of Conscription should any Templar question Morrigan's presence, she felt uncomfortable with risking Morrigan's safety in such a way. Leliana had proved herself to be silver of tongue, so she would accompany Alistair and Charlotte into the Circle. Looking at their group, Charlotte wished fiercely for better armor – what had ever happened to Grey Warden uniforms? Even if she and Alistair were the only Wardens, the least they could try and do to further their cause was provide an impressive image. She sighed.

"And the assassin? What about him?" Alistair was surly, already prepared for a fight. He had been in a bad mood since she recruited Zevran into their party, and quite frankly she'd had enough.

"I know you don't like him," she replied, "But he's a part of us now and there's nothing to be done about it. He's coming with us."

Alistair started at her irritable tone, "What was that about?"

"I'm tired of arguing," she answered wearily, getting up. "You and Morrigan; you and me. Don't we have enough to contend with already?" Disappointed in him, Charlotte walked away, while Alistair winced in guilt. "Charlotte-" he called, trying to get her back. Charlotte shook her head and did not return to him.

"You're coming with us," Charlotte announced to Leliana, who looked at her friend with concern. "What has upset you?" She asked. Charlotte shrugged and turned to call to Zevran, who was chatting with a skeptical-looking Sten. "Zevran, you're coming too." The elf's face lit with a delighted smile; he bowed with a flourish and joined the two women, extending his hand to Leliana.

"What is that for?" She inquired in a dry tone.

"My weapons," Zevran smiled guilelessly, but his eyes sparkled with mischief. Leliana deferred to Charlotte, her lips pursed with disapproval. Charlotte waved a hand in assent, "Give them to him. We might as well." Unhappy, but compliant, Leliana retrieved his daggers for him while Charlotte went to speak with Sten and Morrigan. As Zevran tried to take the pommel of one of his blades, Leliana withdrew the other from its scabbard and held its edge against the side of his neck.

"If you do anything to try and harm her or Alistair, I will kill you." She whispered, her pretty accent making the deadly words sound inviting. Zevran chuckled, "I'm sure you would," he agreed. Leliana glared at him for a moment, then pulled back, sliding the dagger back into its sheath and shoving it into his hands. Zevran chortled to himself while he secured the straps around his shoulders, gazing after Leliana as she stomped off.

Charlotte addressed the others, unaware of her comrades' tense exchange. "Morrigan, Sten – you're staying here with the camp. Keep yourselves hidden and be cautious. Mastodon," she addressed her hound, who puffed his chest, at attention. "I want you to guard the horses."

The dog offered one short bark as his answer and went to stand in front of their mounts, which were tied to trees concealed underneath Morrigan's spells. The horses whinnied softly, taking no notice of their custodian as they sipped delicately from a little stream and ate from bags of oats tied to tree trunks.

Morrigan was smirking, so Charlotte offered her a final warning: "Morrigan, however effective your magic is, we are on thin ice covered in Templars. Do not be foolhardy in your use of magic while we are here." Morrigan wrinkled her face with displeasure and rolled her eyes, but the telling way she crossed her arms and shrugged told Charlotte the message had been received and agreed to. "Whatever you say, O fearless leader." Morrigan swanned off to her private camp area, where she would no doubt spend the afternoon brewing potions.

"Little warden, I have a request." Sten towered over her, his unsettling gaze piercing hers.

"Yes, Sten?"

"I wish to exit the camp grounds to investigate a matter of personal importance. Do I have your permission to do this?"

Puzzled, Charlotte wondered what the Qunari soldier could be connected to here, but chose not to ask. "Yes, of course. Just please be careful and do not mention who you are camping with or where."

Sten grimaced at her as if in disappointment, "I am not so foolish." He retorted, then walked away down the hill towards the local village. Charlotte shrugged to herself in resignation; nothing she did or said seemed to please the Qunari, but she had more important matters to worry about - like how they were going to assemble an army when they were being hunted by Loghain and diverted by errands that had no bearing on the Blight.

If it had not been for the treaty they held with the Circle, Charlotte would not have consented to this trip. She sympathized with Alistair's devotion to Eamon – even if she did not understand it - but the importance of personal desires did not outrank the greater good of saving Ferelden. Truth be told, she would have allowed them to execute Connor – quietly – if they had no business with the Circle and instead focused her energies on getting Teagan to take control of his brother's army, then securing his promise that they would serve the Grey Wardens. Charlotte knew little of the elder Guerrin brother, but she had only ever heard and seen good things of the younger, mostly from her mother and father when they were trying to introduce her to the workings of the Landsmeet. With all due respect to Eamon, she did not feel the same conviction Alistair did that he was the only Guerrin brother who could lead them through this crisis. It was an awfully cold thought, but needs must, and she had a duty that – as Duncan had so emphatically enunciated - could not be foresworn.

Charlotte watched as her comrades readied themselves for the meeting with the heads of Kinloch Hold. A fine mist had settled over the hills by the lake, which rolled greenly towards its shores, where steel grey water lapped at sand and pebbles. Uneven, sharp rocks rose out of the water near the lakeshore and further out, giving off the appearance of jagged teeth near the water's edge. The inn was at the bottom of their descent, where it benefited from the docks that delivered Fereldens from one side of the lake to the other as they traveled from east to west and back again. Everyone looked respectable, at least. Even Zevran, who was handsome enough to make up for his obviously untrustworthy character; were it not for his dubious loyalty, Charlotte might have left him behind, but she felt a responsibility to keep an eye on the assassin since she had been the one to spare his life and bring him into the party. All she felt now was an increasingly heavy sense of responsibility; as she and Alistair had seen the day before, the Darkspawn were now coming out in force. The group they had taken down must have had more than six members, the most she had fought at one time since they left the Wilds.

"Alright, let's make our way to the docks and see a man about a boat." Her voice carried over the camp and her diplomatic group nodded, gathering at the crest of the hill. Armor rattling gently, Charlotte breezed past them, with Alistair close on her tail, obviously determined to make amends. Leliana and Zevran gave the Warden pair a respectful distance, descending the hill at a more leisurely pace. Sensing his stare, Leliana glanced at a grinning Zevran, her face full of suspicion.

"So tell me," Zevran asked in his most appealing voice. "What do Chantry sisters do for amusement?" He cocked one eyebrow suggestively; Leliana snorted, shaking her head.

Charlotte focused on her footsteps, Alistair keeping a quick pace beside her. "I'm sorry; you were right. I shouldn't be arguing. Will you forgive me?" Alistair's hazel gaze was sincere with contrition, his handsome face hopeful. Charlotte realized she didn't want to be angry with him, and she smiled, nodding her head.

Alistair let out a breath, clearly relieved. "I can be such an idiot sometimes. I'm sorry - again, if that helps. "

Charlotte almost laughed, "What a thing to say! You're not an idiot Alistair." Winking, she added, "Well not _all _the time…" Alistair let out an indignant objection and Charlotte laughed, her mirth carrying back to Leliana and Zevran, who exchanged a knowing look between them.

"Are they always like that?" Zevran asked, bemused.

"They're young and inexperienced." Leliana answered, her smile affectionate. "They are finding their way. It's very romantic."

"Ah, I do love a good bit of romance. It is intoxicating, no?"

Deadpan, Leliana replied, "I am not going to sleep with you."

Zevran laughed heartily, "You are so fierce, my dear! You have no worries with me. I am not, how you say, a _forceful _lover. At least not until after I am invited into bed."

Leliana's tone was wry, "How lucky for me." Again, Zevran chortled.

The docks were finally in view. The foursome reached them and began to look for the boatman, their eyes straining as they fought to see through the murkiness of an overcast day mixed with heavy mist.

"Well, there's the boat," Charlotte muttered, turning around. "Where's the boatman?"

A voice like a rusty gate called to them from the fog: "Ehy, boat's not sailin' today." A rough-hewn man emerged, carrying a small lantern. His clothes were simple and needed mending; above them, eyes squinted from a face that could have been carved out of flint, flecked with white hairs. He tottered over, the lantern casting an eerie glow over his grizzled visage.

"Hello," Charlotte said, turning on her best smile. "Not sailing? Why is that?" Silently, Charlotte prayed that the Maker would preserve her from another setback.

The old man studied her with suspicion, not smiling back. "Couldn't say; I've got my orders from Knight-Commander Greagoir, and that's all I know." His eyes traveled over the group, lingering with special skepticism over Zevran, who grinned charmingly in response. The man huffed, unimpressed.

Charlotte debated, then decided to take the plunge. Mustering all her charm, honed and shaped expertly by her mother, Charlotte offered a general salute and then a bow for good measure. "I am Ser…Josselyn and these are my comrades. We come with very important business for the Knight-Commander."

"A knight, are ye?" The old man grunted; he waved the lantern, offering his greeting in return. "The name's Kester. Been running this boat almost since they gave Lake Calenhad its name." He came closer to Charlotte, looking at the rest of the group with less misgiving than before. "The truth is I haven't the faintest why Knight-Commander Greagoir won't let folks cross, but he gave his orders right strict and he's a good man. I don't want to oppose him."

Gritting her teeth, Charlotte tried not to lose patience. This man had to be coaxed, it would seem. She offered her most earnest agreement. "No, of course not. I'm just so concerned, you see, because we _must _reach him with an important message. It's a matter of great concern regarding the safety of the Circle." Charlotte made her eyes wide, tilting her head close to him as if they were conspiring together.

Kester was not entirely won; his gaze narrowed, he asked: "And how would you know? You don't look like no Templars to me."

This was going to be harder to pull off than she thought; Charlotte glanced behind her at the others, thinking fast. None of them looked like much of anything in particular, as different as they were. Charlotte turned back to him, her face sad.

"Well, you see Kester, we're part of the King's army." Behind her, Charlotte heard Alistair inhale a breath.

Kester's gaze widened, "You was there when the darkspawn killed the King?" His voice was hoarse with awe. Charlotte nodded, leaning even closer. Leliana joined her, offering her best look of sorrow.

"We were," Charlotte answered quickly, not wishing Leliana to speak and betray her accent. This was already going to be a feat if they managed to secure his belief; if he heard the tones of an Orlesian traveling minstrel, an unlikely recruit for Maric's shield, all would be instantly lost. "And we're here now on an urgent matter. I know we must look strange without our official armor, but we've had to be very… discreet." Charlotte glanced around her, then met Kester's eyes with a significant gaze. Alistair's obvious distaste at the thought of serving Cailan and Zevran's cool stare helped her tremendously; both men put on their best poker face, one fighting his true feelings and other accustomed to the theater of deceit.

"Andraste's golden bells… Well, then I don't know. Knight-Commander Greagoir was very clear-"

Impatiently, Zevran interrupted. "Do you really want to obstruct the business of the Crown?" he snapped, hiding his accent well. Charlotte was impressed; he sounded almost as haughty as Morrigan.

Kester was torn; without any real proof of their mission, he felt strongly he should obey the Knight-Commander's orders. But if it turned out what they said was true and Greagoir didn't receive this important message….

"Right, I'll take ye across, but be quick about it. I don't want no one else seeing this and pestering me to sail for them." Charlotte smiled, murmuring a sincere oath of gratitude, "We'll pay you extra for your trouble," she promised. Obviously uncomfortable, Kester muttered a reply, "Just so long as nobody sees..." Favoring one leg, the old man hobbled down the dock at a brisk pace, taking his lantern with him. As the others followed, Charlotte looked around them and had to wonder who, on a day like this, could see anything clearly.

* * *

Choppy water rocked against wood decorated with flaking, white paint. The sounds of wooden oars creaking against the sides of their little ketch raked against Alistair's senses as he worried over the prospect of tumbling, heavier than a stone, into the deep grey waters of Lake Calenhad. Between himself and Charlotte, both encased in chainmail bestowed upon them by Teagan's charity, the boat had sunk a whole foot into the waters, causing all those not accustomed to sailing to twist around in unease. Only Zevran, who came from the fishing city of Antiva, did not flinch when they set off for the tower rising like a giant out of the mist.

Alistair couldn't help but feel that an air of unhappiness reeked from the tower itself; even the windows, which should have glowed with candlelight on such an overcast day, were blank, bricked over by cool grey stone that watched them impassively as they drew closer and closer to the Circle's docks. The tower itself had not been constructed by the Chantry, but by the Tevinters before Andraste's Exalted March against the Imperium. It was a grand, imposing structure made of stone so silver it was almost white in places, despite the blackened streaks of age at its base. Alistair followed its line up to a bridge that had once connected the spire to the outside world; now, Alistair saw a jagged edge where that connection had been severed. The boat hit another rise in the water and Alistair leaned back, gripping the sides of the boat with his hands. As he stared at the broken stone hundreds of feet above his head, Alistair grew dizzy and wondered if any of the mages had ever tried to escape.

The group rode out their short journey in silence, each overwhelmed by the heaviness that lurked underneath the silvery mist. When Kester drew to the left and curved around the small island upon which Kinloch Hold stood, Charlotte saw how poorly tended the grounds were; dead bushes with gnarled hands bobbed in her vision on grass covered in patches of yellow and brown. Charlotte wondered if the children of the Circle were ever allowed outside to play.

The mouth of an opening yawned before them at the base of the tower. Kester led them into it with expert ease, rowing at a steady pace and chewing the end of a pipe he'd lit at the beginning of their journey. Little puffs of smoke rose and disappeared, the strong smell of tobacco mixing with the scent of wet and rain floating in the air. As they entered the gaping maw, it grew dark, with only a dim, flickering light afforded to them by torches burning low in iron brackets along the walls. In the darkness, they heard a wet _drip, drip, drip _coming from the ceiling. The walls looked oily under the torchlight.

Finally, Kester slowed as they reached an embarking point. He clambered from the boat and anchored it with a rope to a small stump on the wooden quay. At his signal, Charlotte exited first, followed by Leliana and then Alistair, who glowered at Zevran as he bowed to allow Alistair through. Charlotte paid Kester, her eyes searching the darkness for an opening to the upstairs.

"Thank you, miss – begging your pardon, Ser Josselyn. I expect they've got important Templar business afoot, or they've come down by now to see who you was. The way up is through that door over there," Kester pointed to a small archway to Charlotte's left, where she could see the faint outline of a wooden door. "Best get back. You have my thanks for your coin."

Startled, Alistair grabbed the old man's shoulder. "What, you're not staying to take us back?"

Kester shook his head, "Sorry, Ser, but I've got the heebie jeebies about the tower right about now. Can't you feel it? Even if you paid me fifty sovereigns I wouldn't stay. You need to get back, Knight-Commander will let me know. They've got boats too. Now I'll be on my way." Kester lowered himself gingerly into the boat, taking his rope and pipe with him. Charlotte silently watched as he pushed away, his little white face glowing in the torchlight only briefly before it was swallowed up in shadow.

They were alone with the _drip, drip, drip_ and Charlotte knew what Kester meant: something was wrong. Why had no one come to the gate at the front to investigate their visitors? Why was the dock abandoned, with no guards?

"Gre-eat," Alistair intoned, his voice tense. It echoed around them. "Kester was right, something is most definitely not right here. All my Templar senses, dull as they are, are tingling – and not in a good way." Alistair leered in the dark, trying to see around him. Zevran chuckled, "Ah yes, a brother of the Chantry; members of your religion are most accomplished at finding doom in all places, yes?"

Alistair snorted, "Or perhaps doom is just very good at finding me."

"I understand that, my friend!" Zevran clapped Alistair on the back, smiling. In response, Alistair frowned and put a few inches between them.

"There is… something." Leliana murmured, coming close to Charlotte, who was still searching for any signal of danger. "But we'll never know what it is until we move up, yes?" Charlotte nodded and made for the door, on alert for any attackers that might leap out at them.

The door was locked. Just as Alistair opened his mouth to complain, Charlotte pulled off her helmet and produced a small pick from her hair. She reached into her hip pouch for the second piece and bent, trying to see the keyhole in the dim light.

"Alistair, could you move to the left, please?" Charlotte bit her lip, concentrating.

"My, my! Our dear Warden is full of surprises. Where did a polished woman of your caliber learn such a skill?"

Leliana gave Zevran a withering look, "You never give up, do you?"

Charlotte looked up at them both, puzzled. "What?"

"Nevermind," Alistair blurted, his face a little red. "Just ignore them. Do your stuff. Actually… come to think of it, how _do _you know how to pick locks?"

Charlotte grinned wickedly, "Ah, but that is a secret that my brother and I shall take to the grave." Too late, she realized her choice of words might be poor and she frowned, suppressing the wave of sorrow she felt at the thought Fergus might already be in his grave. Swallowing hard, Charlotte refocused on the lock. Zevran, new to the group, was oblivious of her reaction.

"Ooh, a brother, you say? Is he as attractive as you? Or were you the only one to benefit in such a way?"

Alistair glared, "Shut it, Zevran."

The elf raised his brows in surprise, "I have said something else to offend you? Perhaps you should warn me, or give me a list of things I can say that will not anger you so much, my temperamental friend."

With an infinitesimal jerk of his head, Alistair indicated Charlotte, whose white, drawn face Zevran finally took notice of. Understanding dawned, and Zevran frowned, silently wondering what had upset her so. Reproachfully, Leliana glared at him, before creasing her face with worry at Charlotte's back.

There was a loud _click_ and the lock released. Charlotte stowed the pick back in her braid and replaced her helmet, shoving the turn piece into her pouch. "There, let's go."

The door swung open with a tired creak, bumping lightly into the wall behind it as Charlotte and Alistair led the group, hands hovering over hilts. When no threat approached, they proceeded cautiously up the stairs, which were dusty and deserted. No noises met them, only a silence thick with foreboding and an electricity in the air that made Charlotte's skin crawl.

At the end of their second ascent, they found a landing with a closed set of doors, which Charlotte discovered were magically protected when she tried to pick their lock. The moment she touched the doors, a spell of repulsion rolled through her like a bolt, causing her to arch back and jerk into Alistair's startled embrace. Breathlessly, she said, "I think there's more to it than that. We're going to have to leave them."

"Are you alright?" Alistair asked, alarmed. Charlotte nodded, feeling dizzy and nauseous. "I think if I'd actually tried to open them, it would have been much worse. Let's keep moving." She pulled away and shook herself off, determined not to lose momentum. They had lost enough time already.

The third staircase deposited them onto a full floor. Here, the dripping, wet walls smelled not like the slick stink of algae, but of something much worse. No torches were lit here, and the hallway evaporated into a point of darkness. On the left, Charlotte saw the doors to cells. The Circle had a dungeon?

"This is just too strange," Alistair said, creeping forward with caution as he became caught up in the spooky atmosphere. "Why has no one found us yet?"

"Hello?!" a hoarse voice croaked from the dark. Leliana leapt back with a little yelp, her cornflower eyes wide. Zevran smiled down at her and Leliana realized she had bumped right into his shoulder. "Do not worry, my dear. You can lean on me any time." He patted her on the arm and Leliana jerked away, her rosebud mouth pursed with distaste.

"Is someone there? Oh please, help!" The voice was a little louder, but not much. Charlotte hesitated, worried it was some magical trick.

"Who are you?" she demanded, withdrawing her daggers.

"I'm a mage," the voice croaked. It sounded like a young man, most likely not a healthy one. "I'm a prisoner, but they've forgotten me for days and I'm thirsty and starving. Please, I mean you no harm. I cannot even cast a spell. The enchantment in the walls prevents it." There was a harsh cough, following by the sound of retching. Suspicious, but concerned, Charlotte edged forward towards the voice in the dark.

"Charlotte," Alistair hissed, displeased at her risk-taking. Huffing with resignation, he too drew his weapon and followed, scowling at her back.

It was pitch dark and the smell was filthy; the prisoner had probably soiled himself and not been allowed to bathe. Charlotte wrinkled her nose in distaste and forged through the unpleasantness until the sounds of his coughing were very close. She stopped and listened.

"Are you there?" he wheezed; a movement in the dark, followed by the chinks of hands gripping bars made Charlotte draw back slightly. "Oh, you are, I can smell you. Roses, oh, I'd never thought I'd smell something so good again."

This was entirely too odd, Charlotte almost couldn't bear it. "Where are the torches?" She asked, hoping some light would make the experience less frightening. The man wheezed, "I'm not sure. Normally, I'm guarded by at least one Templar, but they just left, I'm not sure how many days ago. The torches eventually went out." His voice grew somewhat small at that and Charlotte shuddered, imagining what it would be like to be abandoned in the dark.

Sheathing her weapons, Charlotte groped to find the wall, until her hand settled on the iron bracket. She yanked the torch out of it and pulled it down, rummaging for her hip pack. She always carried her flint with her, even when they weren't at camp, in case of emergency. She bent to one knee and began scraping it, trying to spark a flame.

"What are you doing?" Alistair's tone was full of trepidation. His heavy footsteps scraped loudly against the wet stone and she could hear his breathing, as well as the slide of his blade against the wall as he felt his way.

"Hold on," suddenly, the flint caught and Charlotte held it to the torch. After a tense moment, it flared, the flame glowing hotly before dimming again, orange with a purple center. Charlotte rose from her kneeling position and replaced it in the bracket, turning quickly to see the face of their prisoner.

He had cowered back in the corner of his cell, covering his face and grimacing against the light of the torch. Charlotte could hardly blame him – no, it was the condition of him that shocked her the most. He was absolutely filthy, covered in dirt from head to toe, with feet black from his own excrement. His hair was stringy, his bones jutting out, and nothing but a thin cloth over his waist to cover him. Charlotte saw underneath the grime that there were bruises, some yellow with age, while others looked only days old. He was breathing heavily, squinting and trying to adjust, his thin arms held up defensively – whether it was against the light or them, Charlotte could not be certain.

"Please, please don't hurt me. I didn't mean any harm." He tried to cower further back and his foot slid on something slimy, causing him to lose balance and fall short. Aching with sympathy, Charlotte grabbed the bars, moving to try and block some of the light to ease his pain.

"We mean you no harm, either. We are not Templars."

The man lowered his shaking hands slightly, eyes still narrowed to slits, but trying to make her out. "One of you feels like one, but not at the same time." Next to her, Alistair sighed.

"That's because I was trained as one, but I never took my vows. You've nothing to fear from me." He told the prisoner gently. Leliana joined them, followed by a solemn Zevran, who studied the revolting conditions with cold, expressionless eyes. "You poor thing," Leliana cooed, her face heartbroken. "What is your name?"

Slowly, the prisoner eased to his feet, hesitating as he felt his way up the wall, with one hand still extended to protect his eyes from the light. As he adjusted, he crept forward, face contorted as he tried to make them out, until he reached the bars and collapsed against them, breathing heavily and squinting. Charlotte saw for the first time that he was an elf, and a handsome one, dirty and haggard though he was.

"Aneiren," his voice was barely more than a whisper. "My name is Aneiren Surana. I'm a mage of the Circle. At least, I was." He smiled bitterly, before sliding further down, obviously dizzy and exhausted. Alistair grabbed his wrists and hoisted him up, his jaw tense with restrained emotion. Charlotte found her voice, as horrified as all of them by the treatment Aneiren had received. Had the Templars really done this?

"Why are you here?" she asked kindly, bending slightly so he could see her face. Aneiren blinked, his eyes out of focus, his posture limp. From what she could tell, he would not be upright were it not for Alistair holding him. Aneiren coughed.

"I helped my friend escape from the Circle. They found out he was a blood mage, and so I was punished." Aneiren chuckled, leaning his head tiredly against the bars. "Jowan always warned me that the Templars would get him, but they got me first."

Alistair's eyes widened in recognition, "Jowan?" He looked at Charlotte, who had also recognized the name. Aneiren's friend was the mage who had poisoned Arl Eamon?

"I know Jowan," Charlotte told him, now even more curious than before. "He poisoned Arl Eamon Guerrin. That's why we're here."

Aneiren's head snapped up in surprise, "No," he gasped, disbelieving. Alistair reached lower to hoist him more comfortably, his nose wrinkling at the smell. "No," Aneiren moaned, "Oh Jowan, what have you done?" His head lolled, another cough wracking his body so hard his ribs looked ready to rip through his skin.

Worried for Aneiren's condition, Charlotte pulled out her waterskin, helping him drink. The elf gulped greedily, coughing hard again when he tried to drink too much and his tight stomach began to reject it. When he'd calmed, Charlotte took her handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his face, exchanging a troubled glance with Alistair. Leliana tutted angrily, while Zevran remained stiff and silent in the shadows.

"I'm sorry," he moaned, "All my fault. I helped Jowan because he thought they were going to make him Tranquil. I would never have done it otherwise." Aneiren raised his head, looking into Charlotte's face fully for the first time. He had stunning eyes, with irises the color of an olive, rich and green with a thick outline of black unlike anything Charlotte had ever seen before. "Please, don't leave me here. I don't want to die." Aneiren dropped his head, rolling it against the bars, the picture of hopeless desperation.

"He's becoming delusional," Alistair said, gritting his teeth with anger. "They've been starving and beating him, not to mention the rest. We have to get him out of there. I don't care about what the Templars will say."

Leliana nodded, her eyes lit from within, "I quite agree. Where is that pick of yours?"

It was only a few moments before Charlotte was able to open the door. She was surprised there were no enchantments on the lock of his cell, but she supposed that, since the cell had been enchanted to prevent use of magic, the Templars would be forced to stick to using just a key. Alistair and Zevran each took Aneiren over one shoulder and gently dragged him out, his feet trailing along the blackened cell floor. Charlotte and Leliana led them from the dungeons to the next level, where there were more cells, until they finally reached another door, which Charlotte could not open even with her pick.

"Great," Alistair panted, steadying an unconscious Aneiren. "That's exactly what we need. To be trapped in a foul dungeon underneath possibly murderous Templars and Maker only knows what else. Perfect."

Leliana worried at the door, tracing a delicate hand over its outline as far as she could reach, searching for some sort of weakness. "There does not seem to be a reasonable explanation, so it must be a magical barrier. I am surprised it has not harmed us yet. Perhaps there is another way?"

Charlotte looked at them all, and decided enough was enough. "Hello!" she shouted, banging on the door. "Can anyone hear us?!"

There was a scuffle and a pause, and then a commanding voice demanded, "Who goes there? Begone, demon!"

There was something oddly familiar about that voice; Charlotte crinkled her forehead, "Wynne?" she called, uncertain.

The elder mage huffed and shouted back, "You will not fool me, Spirit! Do not play games!"

Excitedly, Charlotte leapt close to the door, resting both hands against the carvings in the wood. "Wynne! It's Warden Charlotte! We've come to seek aid from the Circle, but something seems awfully wrong! Let us in! Alistair's here too!"

Wynne's silence was filled with shock; after a moment, she called back. "Warden Charlotte? Can this be true? How is that even possible?"

"We came by boat with Kester! No one was at the gate, so he dropped us off at the bottom level. We found a prisoner, he's very sick! His name is Aneiren. Can you open the door?"

"Wynne!" Alistair bellowed, "It's me! For the sake of all that is Holy, please don't leave us to rot in here!"

"Alistair?" Wynne replied, perplexed. "My goodness! You have someone with you who is injured? Alright, everyone, stand back. You too, Petra. Let's see if I can open this."

Charlotte heard scraping against the wood as Wynne felt her way, trying to discern what magic trapped them. Finally, she called out instructions. "Stand back! This might have a rather strong effect, even on your side."

The group scuffled down a few steps, Zevran and Alistair struggling as they tried not to drop Aneiren and send him tumbling down the stairs. There was a tense silence with the vague sounds of chanting coming from the other side of the door. As Wynne's magic took effect, the door began to rattle in its hinges - the barrier spell was resisting her ministrations. Gradually, the magic gave more and more to Wynne's spell. Charlotte could hear the powerful rising of her voice as she called out in Latin. A blue light began to outline the door and the wood bucked, bending out as if someone were pushing the center of the wood, making it creak painfully before it snapped back again. The rattling became more pronounced. They all watched, eyes wide, as the light grew brighter and brighter, the rattling now a cacophonous shake, until Wynne's voice was a tremendous shout warring with the winds of the former spell being broken.

Suddenly, another voice roared, deep and filled with pained fury. The door exploded out, pregnant with energy, its edges straining to hold. Wynne's chanting boomed in response and Charlotte could feel she was close – but something else was too.

The door shot open, flying back so hard against the wall that the top hinge broke, causing them all to jerk back in anticipation of its descent. As it swung away, Wynne became visible through the shower of light, her arms raised with one hand clutching her staff, surrounded by a torrent of magical wind. The deeper voice's roar that had previously echoed suddenly shrank as if it were nearby, and out of the light emerged an enormous demon, torso first. He was made of fire and rage and in one claw he clutched a sword, his faceless head swinging to and fro to locate his attackers.

Abruptly, the light and wind disappeared, leaving them all almost in the dark. Behind the demon, Wynne's eyes were wide, her mouth thin with determination. Her gaze snapped down to an astonished Charlotte's and she issued yet another command, her finger pointed as light began to crackle from the top of her staff:

"KILL THE DEMON!"

* * *

_A/N: Hooray! I finally got some time for writing! I wanted to explain Aneiren's name, which is different than the Aneirin from the quest, "Wynne's Regret." On an Elven language website, my spelling of Aneiren can be interpreted as "sharp hand," which is a reference to his talents as a battle mage (which we will find out more about later!) Also, the chapter's title is (if you haven't already guessed) from the movie "The Silence of the Lambs." I won't always reference films that match the theme of the chapter; mostly I'll focus on referencing films that make a catchy title. Thank you again for reading, I hope you enjoyed! _


	22. A Hard Day's Fight

_2 weeks earlier. _

A group of apprentices had gathered at one end of the library collaborating, Uldred presumed, on a project related to their Spirit magic course. As he hurried through, one of the apprentices reached out to grab a tome from the shelf, his fellows leaning in eagerly. A moment later, singed fingers were hastily withdrawn to the sound of disappointed moans, the book still sparking menacingly on the shelf, warning off any other brassy thrill-seekers. Sighing, Uldred wrinkled his face in irritation. _Amateurs!_

These _subjugates _were not worthy of the title mage. Their compliance with the mandates of the Circle offended him deeply, especially at such a critical moment in the revolution. Uldred looked around him at these pathetic beings who refused the greatest power in the world, denying their birthright to read books and live without sunlight, paying _respect_ to the conspirators in this offensive arrangement under the odious lie they were their protectors. Protectors, bah! They were blisters on his heel – little insects, running underfoot, whom he would squash with pleasure very soon.

Uldred turned a corner and abruptly had to dart to one side as a Templar standing guard leaned to the right and nearly hit the mage with one of his enormous, armor-clad shoulders. Rage seethed within, but Uldred could not afford to show it. "Excuse me," the mage withered in his robes, making his demeanor as obsequious as possible. The Templar nodded, eyes watchful through that hateful little slit – as if Uldred should fear _him!_

The mage continued his course, taking measured steps under the eyes of the Templars, hurrying through those brief spaces which they did not invade with their need to control. In the Senior Mage Quarters, a smaller library available only to those advanced enough to be trusted had originally seemed an apt place to deliver his messages, but it had become clear how closely guarded that space was early in his planning, even among their own. After the King refused his assistance at the Tower of Ishal, Uldred had sent word to begin dispersing messages to those previously earmarked for the movement. Uldred knew now that if he wanted to break free, force would be the only way.

When Uldred reached the Circle Chantry, he quickly went to the altar and bowed, which earned him an approving smile from a Sister. "Let him take notice and shine upon thee, for thou has done His work on this day." Disgusted, but unwilling to reveal himself, Uldred allowed the woman to bless him, eyes of fire glaring onto the ground as she placed a cool hand on his shaved crown.

Her robes whispering in the silent chapel, the Sister moved on to speak with someone else. Candles burned along the walls of the nave, stopping where they met the small altar. Few people were praying at this time of day, busy at work in classes, storerooms, or eating their lunch in the mess hall downstairs. It was, in other words, a perfect moment to hold meetings of clandestine nature.

The one he sought lit a votive at the other end of the chapel. The wick flickered and flared, before softening to a smaller flame. She blew out the long match and bent her head in prayer as a single tendril of smoke rose from its extinguished tip. Her dark hair shone richly under the lights of the magical lanterns in the walls, complementing the green robes which clung tightly to her figure. Uldred approached her with a measured pace, bending his head next to hers and bringing his hands together into a position of imploration. After a few moments of murmured petition, the girl raised her eyes to the likeness of Andraste placed above the votive candles, closing her prayer with a whispered, "Amen."

His apprentice, Ryia, awaited his command, dark blue eyes glittering in the candlelight, carefully not turning towards him with expectation.

"The one who repents, who has faith unshaken by the true darkness of the world – she shall know true peace." His instruction imparted, Uldred bowed and allowed her to pass. As Ryia exited, she nodded one last time to the chapel Sister, who smiled with benediction at them both, these devotees of her Maker. Uldred lit a candle and smiled to himself; now, the cogs were turning. Ryia would alert the others, and those Templars that were most troublesome would be slowly poisoned until the day of revolution came to the Circle, so that when they went to raise swords and cleansing spells against them, their minds would be unable to resist… redirection. Lyrium stores had already been stolen; tonight, the personal supply of each carefully selected Templar would be swapped with those containing traces of the blood potion. By the time those in power realized something was wrong, it would be too late. Nothing would get in Uldred's way – nothing.

Containing his glee, Uldred offered his supplication one last time before leaving, kneeling at the altar. The Sister reveled in his devotion; this mage had come often to the chapel as of late and she felt the work of the Maker shining through him as he gave himself to His plans, worshipping his true purpose as a servant to Andraste and the Maker's word. Uldred murmured her favorite verse, carrying his silken voice just loud enough for her to hear, so that she joined him in his fervent prayer. When she came to stand beside him, Uldred smiled and accepted her hand upon his shoulder. They recited the verse again in tandem, the candles of a hundred entreaties twinkling around them:

"Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just."

* * *

_Present_

Empress Celene fanned her warm face, still hidden by a porcelain mask resplendent with the designs of a recent court favorite. Her eyes narrowed her eyes to slits as she studied the undignified cawing of her courtiers. The little puppet show had been offered as a gift by Seigneur Angier – another attempt to get into her good graces. How little he understood her. A garish figure on strings danced across the wooden stage; he had wide, blank eyes painted with black pupils that did not see. A mocking smile was spread across his face, shadowed by the tell-tale red flannel coxcomb of a jester, complete with bells that tinkled a tinny ring. The jester was laughing at the expense of figures frowning and cowering in dismay; Fereldens, being overshadowed by the distorted shadow puppets of Darkspawn. The figures cried pitifully for help from the great ruler of Orlais, begging for her benediction, and her courtiers laughed like donkeys again. Celene snapped her fan shut with irritation – she was surrounded by hedonistic sycophants who wouldn't know a smart political move from a poorly executed ass-kissing – and clapped her hands, abruptly capturing the attention of all. "This is revelry for you? This _spectacle _provides you pleasure?" Celene sat still in her throne, her green gaze glittering like glass from the slits in her mask as she regarded them all with cold displeasure. "_Vraiment? _The death and suffering of the Fereldens entertains you?"

A deadly silence settled over the room; courtiers who had been lying on pillows, drinking cider and wine and eating a fine indoor picnic, now barely moved, their enjoyment forgotten. Seigneur Angier had become a shadow in the corner of the room where he had been grinning with satisfaction only a moment before. The ladies in waiting to the Empress exchanged uneasy looks of questioning, wondering who would make the first move to soothe the Empress' indignation. Whomever attempted it would be taking a grave risk; either they would earn the great reward of her favor or take a humiliating fall from grace, from which there would be a painful, lengthy return – if they were lucky.

The Empress waited; suddenly, a knock at the door roused them from the uncomfortable silence. Celene glared briefly at them all, debating whether to hold her ground. Finally, she chose to be lenient; she knew whoever would have been foolish enough to address her would have to be sacrificed to make her point and she had more important matters to worry about today. "_Entrer!" _Nonetheless, this interruption had better be good.

The Chancellor was announced and he entered, his pace brisk. "_Votré Majeste, pardonne moi._ I have come to announce the arrival of an… important guest." To all those who were not the Empress, the look he gave her would have seemed impassive. To Celene, it meant much more.

After a moment's silence, Celene replied. "_Très bien_, I will see them." Celene frowned at the puppeteer's booth, flicking one dismissive hand its way. "See that this travesty of the performance arts is disposed of before I return." Celene rose from her throne, eliciting an immediate wave of bows from her noble subjects, whose hearts pounded well after her graceful exit from the room.

The Empress swayed at a dignified pace down the hall to one of the smaller, more discreet receiving rooms in her private wing of the palace. It was one accessed only by her most trusted servants and checked daily for unwanted listeners. Anyone who was suspected of treachery in their service to this room was immediately executed for treason against the Empress; this had created a fervent loyalty among those chosen, as well as healthy fear. Celene preferred to garner loyalty through love and gratitude, but was amenable to proving herself through ruthlessness when the occasion called for it. One in particular that she remembered most fondly was a time when she'd had one of her sisters executed for sleeping with her lover; during a spring _salon_, she'd had her pushed from a window, where she had fallen to her death in the Empress' splendid garden. She had made sure roses were planted under the window just for the occasion. It had made quite the impression.

Chancellor Barre nodded for one of Celene's guards to let them through; the man quickly opened the chamber door and bowed, allowing her majesty entrance. Once ensconced in her proper place, the Empress gave leave for their visitor to be showed in, leaning back and not removing her mask. She would not yet bestow such a sign of solidarity.

The woman was led in by the humorless guard, who awaited their Empress' command. She seemed unconcerned by the ceremony with which she was received, nor with the Empress' state of formal dress, despite the intimacy of the small chamber. She smiled, almost seeming amused, before bowing to her queen on one knee. Celene raised her eyebrows; she knelt like a man, forgoing the curtsy normally expected of a woman. Chancellor Barre was not amused, but he hid his disapproval, awaiting the decision of Celene. Her visitor waited too, not moving from her supplicant position.

"You may rise, Marjolaine."

The Orlesian bard did as she was told, her smile widening briefly so that only the Chancellor could see, before she resumed a softer expression of benevolence and service to her queen. "_C'est mon privilége, Votré Majeste." _Marjolaine thought the choice of the Empress's words amusing; to be here in the Empress' service was indeed a rise in her position, in more ways than one.

The Empress did not answer, only stared through those little slits with thoughtful repose.

"Marjolaine, you have been called into service to the Crown. You are aware of that importance of such a calling?"

The bard nodded, bowing slightly again, remaining silent until indicated to be otherwise. Empress Celene nodded in return, "_Très bien_; I have heard much about you. Is all of it true?"

Marjolaine laughed; her voice was deep and smoky, well complemented by dark hair and eyes. "I could not say, _Votré Majeste_, it would depend much upon who you heard it from and under what circumstances they were speaking." With a knowing smirk that was rather daring, the bard added, "As you well know, _Votré Majeste, _people have much to say regarding those involved with politics." The Empress smiled a little in return, enjoying the brazenness of this woman.

"Indeed," she agreed quietly. After a moment's pause, Celene indicated she required the help of the Chancellor, who leapt into action. "Remove my mask," she commanded. Guillame did as he was told – though he did not like it – and untied the ribbons at the back of the Empress' head, taking care not to catch on her complicated hairdressing as he pulled the china away from her face.

Despite the heat, she was still magnificent under the mask, her features delicate but arresting. Marjolaine wondered what kind of lover she would be and tried to hide her salacious thoughts; she had diversions that were more than willing to entertain such impulses. She would not bring them here.

"You seem like a woman of intelligence," Celene told her. "So let us be ourselves." The Empress smiled, propping her chin on one hand. "Do you think yourself very clever, Marjolaine?"

Marjolaine hesitated; she felt as if this were a test and was not entirely certain how to answer it. Finally, she replied, "I must be, my Empress, or I could not survive what I do."

Empress Celene laughed heartily; it was throaty and appealing, drawing Marjolaine further in. Marjolaine was secretly delighted with her reaction and her confidence grew. "Indeed!" Empress Celene agreed as her laugh tapered away, "I know that truth well, master bard. We must do many things to shape others for the betterment of something bigger than ourselves, no?"

Marjolaine grinned in agreement and Celene chuckled to herself, tilting her head as she studied the bard with a smile. Where Marjolaine was relaxed, Guillame was a taut wire, watching the deadly attack of a shark on an unknowing swimmer.

"Yes," Celene mused, "And now we are united, you think? In this cause for country and crown?" Her smile became barely strained, the eyes draining ever so slightly of warmth. Marjolaine chose to ignore it; she was the greatest bard in Orlais and the Empress had expressly demanded her services. This was a test and one that she would pass with flying colors. "Of course, my Empress."

Celene studied her for a time before continuing. "As you can imagine, this particular occasion merits much more than your usual effort, or I would not be here. Do you understand?"

Marjolaine did the bow of a lady this time, raising her eyes back to the Empress to convey her respect. "_Oui, Votré Majeste._"

Celene smiled and then rose, descending from her high seat and making her way to Marjolaine in the center of the room. Chancellor Barre and the two guards watched her carefully, like mice would an approaching viper waiting for it to strike. She was graceful, measured; her skirts rustled in the quiet and shone in afternoon sunlight peeking through the curtained windows. Celene liked sunlight; all her receiving rooms were positioned so that the sun shone upon her from the east, bathing her with its glowing light at the best possible angle. She took advantage of that now, walking in a circle around her hireling, from Marjolaine's right to her left. Marjolaine remained still, eyes following the Empress' progress, feeling her examination of Marjolaine's every inch. Marjolaine inwardly smiled; she was sure she had made the desired impression upon the Empress.

Finally, Celene stopped her inspection, facing Marjolaine from the front and placing one elegant finger under her chin. She made sure she had the arrogant woman's full attention, her smile beatific with kindness as she spoke; "Good, my dear, because if you fuck this up I will burn your entire coterie to the ground and then," Celene tenderly stroked an errant hair back from Marjolaine's face, which was now leeched of color, "I will cut off your head." Celene smiled once more, her expression almost that of an indulgent mother, before lightly releasing Marjolaine's chin and taking the steps back to her high chair at the apex of the room. Once seated, Celene pulled out her fan and began to wave it with one languid hand. Marjolaine's confidence was gone; her eyes had become blank, empty of all emotion as she scrambled not to show her fear. Marjolaine curtsied once more, her head bowed low to hide her expression.

"_Bonne chance, _Marjolaine," Celene told her softly. "You're going to need it."

* * *

At long last, the demon roared its final oath of defiance and dissipated, its ashes falling in a heap on the ground. The demon's greatsword landed with a clatter, pommel-first, onto to the stone at his side. Suddenly, there was a retraction of sound and the light of battle magic faded from their midst; all was momentarily silent.

"Is it… is it dead?" A little boy peeked from behind Petra, a mage who appeared to be Wynne's second. His fellow apprentices varied in age from barely more than four to almost eighteen – all of them cowered behind Petra and two other adult mages, who had fought with the others against the demon. Charlotte looked up from her knees, panting; she could hear the others being similarly winded. That had not been an easy fight.

"Is anyone injured?" She asked, coming shakily to her feet.

"Not me," Alistair sheathed his sword, his forehead gleaming with the product of his exertion. "Are you alright, Wynne?"

The older woman looked rather pale and leaned heavily on her staff, but her expression remained determined, the lines of her mouth set in stubborn strength. "I'm fine, young man. Petra, how are the children?"

Petra was waving glowing hands over the cowering huddle of apprentices, "They're fine, just in shock and exhausted by all this excitement." Petra's hair was coming loose from her ponytail and her face bore the weariness of days spent in crisis. What was happening here?

After reassuring herself that all were in one piece, Charlotte finally took a good look around. Zevran was helping Leliana lift Aneiren, who was still unconscious and badly in need of healing. The room around them was a small piece of the circle tower's signature shape, with ceilings that reached so high as to almost be out of sight, held up by floors and walls of Tevinter stone carved in neat lines, accented with elaborate filigree. There were two possible exits; one door was shut tight at the opposite end of the room, the other appeared to lead into the rest of the floor and was blocked by a shimmering wall of magic. As Charlotte stared at the magical shield, she got a funny feeling. Suddenly, the room swooped around and Charlotte crumpled, her eyes rolling back into her head.

"Charlotte!" Alistair was instantly at her side, lifting her torso from the ground and trying to get a good look at her face. "Wynne! Something's wrong!"

Wynne made her way over to them, diverting from her path to Aneiren, who Leliana and Zevran had been lowering to the ground. The elder mage cast a blue light over the young woman then frowned. After a moment's consideration, she cast a silvery light over her head and sat back to wait.

"She was injured – something in her brain. I think it should be alright now." Wynne rose with difficulty and went back to Aneiren who, if she could feel correctly, was near death. Charlotte stirred.

"Uhhhh," Charlotte's eyes fluttered open; she felt better, but still exhausted somehow. Her eyes shut again.

"Charlotte," Alistair stroked her face. Leliana and Zevran joined him; both faces were creased with concern. Charlotte's eyes fluttered again.

"Young woman, come here and help me," Wynne called to Leliana, who patted Alistair and went to the mage, answering quietly in her lyrical voice as Wynne shot out a series of questions about the conditions in which they discovered Aneiren.

"Charlotte, love, wake up." Alistair murmured, sweeping some of her loose hair from her face. Charlotte moaned and slowly began to open her eyes. As her vision blurred into focus, she saw Alistair's worried face, his eyes marred by a little crease between each hazel orb, and Zevran grinning cheerfully on her other side. Confused, she stared up at them, wondering what had happened.

"What…" Charlotte looked down and saw that Alistair held her left hand; as his face twisted into a scowl, hers flushed with embarrassment when she realized who clutched her right.

"No harm meant, pretty lady." Zevran said, although he was smiling maliciously at Alistair, who ground his teeth in response. "It merely seemed the thing to do, but now that you are recovered." Zevran rose onto one knee and bent to kiss her hand, his eyes never leaving Alistair's, before lowering it respectfully onto her stomach and giving her a twinkly wink. "_Sta bene, mio principessa._" Zevran came to his feet and joined Leliana next to Wynne, still grinning.

"The nerve…Are you alright, sweetheart?" Alistair helped Charlotte up, glaring after the impetuous elf. Charlotte did not immediately answer, too embarrassed to speak. "I'm fine.'" Charlotte looked at her feet, worried that Alistair would be angry. Alistair squeezed her hand and smiled, bending down to catch her eye. "Let me see those beautiful eyes," he murmured; Charlotte rewarded him with a shy smile.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Alistair stroked her hair away again, looking for an excuse to touch her. He hated seeing her fall like that; his heart still galloped in his chest while he fought off the creeping panic stirred by the very thought of her being… lost. Imagining facing all of this without her was…well, unimaginable. Alistair suppressed a shudder.

"I'm fine, really," she reassured him, brushing herself off. Charlotte felt foolishly glad to be near him; the more she craved to fall into his embrace, the more she mentally chastised herself and forced herself to draw away. Alistair allowed her to go, knowing that this was not the time, but the loss of contact was disconcerting to both and they eyed each other hungrily for more comfort. As a distraction tactic, Alistair inquired, "Do you know Antivan? You seemed to understand what Zevran said."

That haunted look that he had come to know well passed briefly over her face before the mask of careful neutrality that usually came after settled into place. "Yes, my… brother's wife was Antivan. I learned so she would be more comfortable." Her tone was short and let him know more questions would be unwelcome, so he stroked her hair once more and tugged her along to join the rest.

"He will live," Wynne told them, her voice betraying her exhaustion. "Aneiren has always been a strong fighter, but the way they treated him down there…." The old woman's eyes flashed and her hands tensed reflexively against her knees. Zevran raised his eyebrows at this obvious display of restrained anger; this woman was not someone he would want to cross. He imagined she was a teacher; the thought of her severity being directed at a classroom of unruly students nearly made him smile. As it was, he kept his humor to himself. It hardly seemed an appropriate time, when it could be misconstrued and when those sparkling hands were so close to his person.

The Grey Wardens came to stand between their group and the mages who awaited Wynne's command. Lowering herself next to Aneiren, Charlotte asked, "Wynne, what has happened?" She turned her gaze directly into the old woman's, conveying that intensity that had so intrigued Zevran the first time he saw her. "Why are you all here, alone, behind a magical barrier?"

Wynne sighed; the fire was still burning there, but she tried to harness it and let her anger go. "There are abominations – someone has unleashed blood magic into the tower."

Alistair's face went white, "By the Maker… are you sure?" He whispered.

Wynne glared up at him, "I killed one myself. There can be no mistaking it."

"What does that mean, Wynne?" Charlotte asked, casting an apprehensive look between her and Alistair. Petra was the one who answered, her voice burning with passion. "It means they've abandoned us to die and will most likely issue the Rite of Annulment." Petra fumed, wrapping her arms around one of the smaller children; she and Wynne engaged in a silent exchange, their expressions full of raw emotion.

"Oh Holy Maker," Alistair wiped one large hand down the side of his face in despair. "That is not good."

"Excuse me," Zevran interjected, his tone pleasant as always. "Could you elaborate? I do not know what this means."

"It means, my dear boy, that the Templars are going to call for reinforcements to exterminate us all. They will assume the Circle is lost and kill every remaining mage on the outside chance that we are all abominations." Wynne let that settle in; Leliana gasped in horror and whispered something in Orlesian, her eyes fixed on the children. Zevran stiffened but exhibited a minimal response, while Alistair placed a steadying hand on Charlotte's shoulder and felt ill at the very thought. The remaining mages were also fuming, but Charlotte could see their fear. Locked up like this, they were helpless – at a moment's notice the Templars could strip them of their magic and kill them before they had even a chance to defend themselves. Charlotte filled with dread; her heart, like Leliana's, was with the children most of all.

"There are no Templars still in the tower?" she asked, hoping for some kind of straw to grasp on. If one of their own could convince them…but Wynne shook her head, "If there are, they are dead or possessed. The blood magic that was unleashed had been planned. The senior enchanters knew something was wrong, but we were misled by a young apprentice who betrayed us and could not intercept their plans in time. It was…brutal."

While Charlotte processed this information, Wynne scooted closer on her knees and placed one hand on the young woman's arm, "But that does not explain why you are here. Why did you come to the tower?"

What they came for seemed very far away right now, "The Blight. Alistair and I are the only Grey Wardens left; we came seeking aid from the mages. The Circle has an ancient treaty with our order." Wynne chuckled and patted her arm before drawing away and looking down at Aneiren, who slept peacefully after Wynne's skilled healing. "Oh dear, what a state you've found us in. There is much chaos during a Blight, it would seem."

"So, what you're saying is that we're not only trapped in here, we're trapped with abominations and Templars who want to kill us and we won't be able to get any aid?" Alistair sighed heavily, "Well, there goes everything."

"Watch your tone," Wynne shot back. "People have died; this is hardly the time for jokes."

"With all due respect, Enchanter Wynne," Charlotte replied, "Many more will perish if we cannot stem the oncoming tide of Darkspawn. That is our only purpose – to protect Ferelden from their overwhelming threat."

Wynne glowered, "I understand that, child, but we are facing death now. What do you expect us to do?"

Petra had been watching all of this with nervous excitement, "Could they help us clean out the tower?" she asked. Wynne frowned, "And what do you think that would accomplish?"

Petra leaned forward, her expression earnest, "Think of it, Wynne! They could cut down the mages that did this and prove we're not possessed by letting us help them! We'll show the Templars what we did and they will have to let us go." Her hope was almost desperate. Wynne clutched the young woman's hand and sighed sadly, obviously storing less faith by the Templars' sense of rationality or compassion.

Charlotte was struggling with her own frustration; she understood that it wasn't the fault of Wynne or her young charges that the tower was in a state when they came to the First Enchanter for help, but this was beginning to get ridiculous. Was there nothing available to them without an enormous price? Would she have to cut down every evil, big and small, in all of Ferelden to win the support she needed? And what then? Would it even suffice?

"Pardon my interruption," everyone turned to look at Alistair, whose expression was hesitant. "But how long has it been like this exactly?"

"I would guess three days," Wynne replied, "It's hard to say without access to a time piece and no one has been ringing the bell."

"Well," Alistair cleared his throat nervously, "There might be one thing, but it would be slim - very slim - and we would have to move quickly."

"What are you suggesting?" Wynne inquired.

Alistair traced his chin thoughtfully, "I don't know much of being a Templar in the Circle; I never took my vows – but one thing I do remember is the power the First Enchanter has alongside the Knight-Commander. To a mage, it might seem pale in comparison, but from what I heard when I was in training, the First Enchanter here has quite a bit of sway."

Wynne rumpled her forehead in concentration; "I suppose you could say that. Irving and Knight-Commander Greagoir have a somewhat strained but respectful relationship," she conceded. Alistair asked, "Do you think the First Enchanter is still alive?" The elder mage's face flashed briefly with distress, then settled coolly again. "I cannot say; I sincerely hope it is so." After some thought, Alistair clapped his hands on his knees and stood straight, "Well, then if we can fight our way to him and bring him back alive, the Knight-Commander might listen to what he has to say about who's an abomination and who's not."

For a moment, no one responded. Finally, Wynne rose an approving if surprised eyebrow, "My dear boy, that might actually work." A little hurt by her tone of revelation, Alistair frowned. What did people take him for, anyway?

One of the other mages who looked Petra's age answered hotly, "Why are we even listening to them? Wynne, who are these people? What do they know of our struggle?" His dark blue eyes flickered over them, his lip curled from a lifetime spent expecting the worst. Wynne glared, "They are Grey Wardens, Kinnon, and you would do well to respect them. It is few among many who would stop to help a mage, rather than turn the other way; we shall not refuse their help." Kinnon glowered unhappily, but kept his peace. As he withdrew towards his fellows, Charlotte could see the other two beside him were similarly doubtful; she could hardly blame them. Even being outside the situation, she felt the same way – none of this fit, none of it was right. But that didn't matter and they had to do something.

"Or die trying," she murmured, inspired.

"Charlotte?" Alistair asked, puzzled. Charlotte stood up and appealed to the younger mages, who glared back with suspicious hostility. It didn't matter; they didn't have a choice. And, for the first time, Charlotte understood something about reaching people she had been missing before. She couldn't prove anything to them and she didn't have to – everything she needed, everything they needed to join her was right in front of them. And this was as good a place as any to start learning how to use that.

"I understand your skepticism," she told them sympathetically, trying to strike that same stirring tone she'd heard her father use a thousand times. "I have no idea what you're lives are like within the Circle; from what little I've seen, I would guess that you endure much more torment than your countrymen realize. You must feel they've abandoned you, just as the Templars have." She swallowed, drawing herself up, "And you're right."

The mages looked at the each other as if they didn't believe what they were hearing, but she could see the difference – she had cracked some of their resolve in their own assumptions. Charlotte forged on.

"We didn't come here to save you; we came here to be saved. A true Blight is upon the land and, if you live to see another day, you will see what is left your life forfeited to darkness if we cannot assemble the forces we need. Whatever is happening now, that will remain true." Charlotte connected with each of them, allowing a pause for that to sink in, and then she continued. "We will not leave you in your time of need. Take the children to the levels below and keep yourselves hidden. We will do what we can before the Templars call upon the Rite of Annulment. But – if we survive, if we defeat these abominations and bring the First Enchanter in time to save you and your friends, consider what you could do to repay that. Consider what you could give back – and all in the beauty of the sun, free from the confines of this place, under the banner of the Grey Wardens."

Kinnon and his two comrades were visibly struck by the thought and looked at each other in nervous contemplation. Charlotte decided the rest of the proof would be in the pudding – or rather, the killing – and stepped back to address the others behind her. "Let us seal them down in the basement away from this madness and find the First Enchanter." Without further ado, she bent to lift Aneiren from his prone position. Another leapt to assist her and she was surprised to see it was Petra, who studied her with interest when Charlotte met her gaze. With a short nod of gratitude, Charlotte and Petra led the others to the first level of dungeons downstairs, where Petra disclosed there was also a vast underground network of storage where they could take refuge. "Now that the door's magic has been broken above, we can hide safely. Thank you." Petra, Kinnon and the others led the children into the storage caves, shushing them gently as they craned to look back and chattered quietly about the Grey Wardens.

"Wait, you're not going with them?" Alistair's voice carried over to where Charlotte and Leliana were standing. Just behind them, with that stubborn set of her mouth, Wynne stood at the ready to join them.

"Certainly not; I am a Senior Enchanter of this Circle and will do my duty in this time of need. Besides," she stuck her chin out a little, one hand clutching her staff with dignity and command. "How do you expect to find your way around or win this without a mage in your party?" Alistair cowed under her severity and muttered a reply, "You have me there."

"I may be old, but I am not frail and I could just as easily zap you into a toad if you disrespect me." Alistair and Zevran both blanched, startled by the threat. "But Wynne," Alistair blurted. "You're too kind for that!"

Leliana and Charlotte raised their eyebrows at each other; Charlotte pressed her mouth carefully shut to suppress any inappropriate laughter. She imagined toad-dom did not just apply to those of the male gender.

"Never mistake kindness for docility," Wynne retorted, stepping around the two men with poise. "An old woman is not just an old woman." She raised one imperious eyebrow at both of them, pausing for dramatic effect. "She has many disguises. Don't think I won't use them."

* * *

Despite its beauty and the obviously better living conditions than at Ostagar (at least, those enjoyed before abominations were unleashed), Charlotte felt that their progression through the Circle Tower reminded her eerily of her excruciating climb through the Tower of Ishal. Though there were no darkspawn, she felt a malignant presence breathing around every corner and could smell the scents of blood and death. Charlotte shuddered and drew closer to Alistair, who patted her back surreptitiously and thought the same thing: this was both horribly familiar and completely new, introducing them to terrors previously not even imaginable to them.

When they gone back through the anteroom that sat between the Great Hall (currently sealed and housing the Templar forces who had retreated) and apprentice living quarters, Leliana had bent to retrieve the sword lost by the demon they had defeated. "This is a beautiful weapon," Leliana said, studying the blade and hilt with a critical eye. "We should take it for our victory. It might be worth something." The bard slid the sword underneath her belt, tightening the leather so the hilt would hold on from the top. Leliana had finally shared a more honest description of her past with Charlotte at camp the night before; part of Charlotte still couldn't believe that the woman who had appeared so ditzy and earnest in Lothering had once been an Orlesian spy. She still didn't know exactly what had happened that lead Leliana to Ferelden, abandoning her role in the famous Game of Orlesian nobles, but she was trying to have faith while keeping a careful eye trained on her every move. As far as Charlotte was concerned, she could be a very useful ally or a dangerous enemy. For the time being, she felt able to assume she was the former. All she had done suggested she was on their side – so far, anyway.

Thinking of that now, Charlotte whispered to Alistair, "I once read that demons prey on your secret desires." Her eyes raked across the empty beds of the apprentices; pools of blood spoke ominously of their fates. Pieces of paper, apprentice robes, and other trinkets once valuable to their owners were strewn chaotically across the room. Trunks had been ripped to shreds and Alistair eyed them uneasily, wondering if apprentices who had become abominations had come back to attack their fellows. It looked like they might have claws.

"What?" he whispered back, mentally preparing himself for his first abomination. He had never actually seen one before, but he'd heard stories. Of the group, Wynne was the only one who knew what an abomination even looked like. Charlotte came up closer by his side as they passed another dormitory, also torn to shreds. Furtively, she whispered, "Do you think that one of us could become possessed and… turn on each other?" The very thought of it was harrowing, but she needed to know. She'd rather ask the question than let her imagination run wild.

"It is possible," Wynne interjected, her voice calmly authoritative. "But unlikely outside the Fade. Mages are susceptible to possession because we simultaneously exist on the corporeal plane and in the Fade, which allows demons entry into our world. A Mundane can only be possessed by blood magic, but I doubt a desire demon would answer such a call, as they are one of the more powerful demons in the hierarchy. It would probably be a demon of hunger or rage; they rank much lower in the Spirit world." Wynne gave them all a motherly smile, her blue eyes kind. "If we are cautious and you follow my instruction, we should be able to evade such an event."

Alistair blew out a big breath, muttering to himself. "Great. Just lovely." Trying to be more positive, he told Charlotte, "I suppose I shouldn't worry really; even if a demon did possess me and try to force my deepest desires, all I would probably end up doing is eating a lot of cheese." Leliana snorted delicately and rolled her eyes, amused in spite of herself.

"You have quite interesting adventures, my friends." Zevran chimed in cheerfully. "I cannot say that I will be bored in your service."

"Who are you, exactly?" Wynne inquired, peering around the corner of the next room, which Charlotte could see was an enormous library. Her heart was pounding in her chest as she awaited the first sign of attack.

"The sworn man of the beautiful Charlotte, my dear lady." Zevran bowed to the elder mage and she looked slightly shocked in response, obviously misunderstanding his meaning. Charlotte hurried to correct her, "I spared his life and he swore to serve our cause Wynne, it's not what you think." Charlotte tried hard not to blush while Zevran winked at her, obviously amused.

Furious, Alistair opened his mouth to reprimand the elf, but Wynne's shout cut across him. "Look out!"

Huddled in conference on their right side were three abominations; Charlotte was struck with how funny they looked, standing there like scholars and talking amongst themselves. When they turned around though, her amusement died in her throat.

They were towering deformations of man, their flesh torn in reverse to reveal bulging veins and angry, purple flesh. Each stood well over seven feet tall – perhaps even taller than Sten – and progressed towards them at a blistering speed, their eyes hooded by ripped skin. The hatred and greed that marked demons emanated off each of them, conveyed most alarmingly by their dead eyes that glimmered like a reptile's in the dark. Charlotte withdrew her daggers and leapt to the side just in time to evade an enormous ball of electricity cast by one of the creatures, who emitted a haunting scream of frustration and bent to charge at her. Alistair immediately joined her side and they raised their weapons, only part of their concentration hearing Wynne's shouted instructions: "Dodge their attacks and stab them in the head or the heart!"

The abomination charged Charlotte and she leapt back, crashing into a bookshelf. What was once a hand was now an enormous claw, which it swiped down to strike her across the neck. She ducked and it destroyed a shelf, shattering flakes of wood into the air while books tumbled to the ground. Charlotte swung around to stab it from the back, reaching with all her might not unlike she had to the night she killed the ogre. Her blades raked down its back and it screeched in rage and pain, turning around to strike at her again. Alistair bashed it with his shield and tried to stab it from the front, but it batted him back, hitting him with such force that he flew back and rolled over on the ground.

"Alistair!" Charlotte dodged its strike again; the abomination hissed. One of its eyes was completely covered in angry red flesh. The other was glittering with malice.

Suddenly, a force of magic waved over the creature, causing it to arch back in surprise. Alistair was sitting on the ground with one of his hands outstretched, his expression angry and determined. "Take that, you stinking mass of evil."

The abomination screeched in response, but it was a little confused and hesitated to attack. Behind her, Charlotte could hear Leliana and Zevran struggling to help Wynne, their shouts echoing off the high ceilings. She had to go to them.

Taking advantage of its addled state, Charlotte climbed the creature's back and raised her blade, preparing to put all her force behind it. Furious, the abomination swung in a quick circle, trying to grab her with its claws. One caught her right leg, cutting a long gash that stung like fire. Gritting her teeth, Charlotte screamed and shoved down her blade into the thing's neck, relishing the crunch its flesh made as she dug in. The abomination gurgled a protest and swung around again, only to meet Alistair's sword. It jerked and bent at the waist as Alistair pushed in his blade, twisting it with savage determination. Their foe fell to its knees, tossing a surprised Charlotte to one side, and fell over before twitching and going still. After a moment's hesitation, Charlotte retrieved her dagger and ran full tilt to assist the others, Alistair close behind.

When the last abomination fell, Wynne went to heal Charlotte's gash and a disoriented Leliana, who had been struck across the face and tossed back into a set of bookshelves. Feeling the wave of healing magic, Charlotte let out a relieved breath and watched with fascination as her flesh knit itself back together. She could see now what Morrigan meant when she said she was "no healer"; Wynne's abilities truly made her feel remade, rather than stitched back in pieces. Perhaps she could recruit a healer before they left, if one was alive and willing to go with her.

"My thanks, Wynne." Charlotte brushed herself off and looked around them, getting her bearings. Rubbing her head, Leliana joined them, the gash on her cheek seeming to dissolve back into her skin.

"No need," Wynne told her briskly; she looked pale and Alistair went to her with a frown. "Wynne, you need to rest. You look like you haven't slept in days."

"I'm fine," she replied dismissively. "Just out of lyrium and low on sleep. We must move on. Come." Wynne led the way, her staff raised expectantly and Alistair sighed, looking concerned for her.

"What you did earlier," Charlotte murmured, following with Alistair, Zevran and Leliana all beside her. "Was that a Templar ability?"

Alistair nodded, "I drained the abomination's mana so it couldn't cast spells. It wouldn't have touched the strength or speed of the demon, but it would weaken the vessel as a whole; I thought it might give us a window."

"Whatever it was," Charlotte told him, "When we find more, be sure to do it again." Alistair smirked, clearly pleased at her approval. "As you command," he replied.

The library was beautiful; long, polished tables sat between high shelves stacked with hundreds of tomes. The walls were silver stone littered with the elaborate designs of ancient Tevinter. Charlotte could see how, after hours when the mages went to study, the room would glow warmly under the magical lights. But as they twisted and turned around the aisles, they found some tables and chairs had been destroyed or overturned; broken pieces of metal and glass glittered prettily under floating magical lights that glowed high above them, near the arched ceiling. Though it was still beautiful, the room seemed filled with the echoes of innocence lost and the leftovers of the mages' screams, as sections of order in the library clashed with those that had been left in violent disorganization.

The first floor housed only a few more abominations; just outside the library, the group encountered a troupe of Shades, who attacked forcefully, but were little match for their blades and Wynne's spells of cold and fire. Along the way, Leliana had been quietly pocketing items of treasure which could later be sold, unbeknownst to Charlotte or Alistair. Zevran had seen the quick hand disappear into a corpse's pocket and emerge with some silver, but had chosen only to raise one curious eyebrow and issue no other response. Leliana knew Charlotte would hate to take advantage of others' misfortune in that way, but they had to keep bread in their packs if they were going to survive.

"There is the stairwell to the second floor," Wynne said, eyeing the door with trepidation. "Proceed cautiously and be alert; there could be much more as we move upward."

There was much more indeed; the second floor was crawling with demons who had climbed through the rip in the Veil torn by the blood mages, as well as possessed corpses much like those they had seen at Redcliffe, though these did not seem to be mages from the Circle. They wore armor instead of robes and were mostly skeletons, with a few disturbing reminders of their flesh, such as an errant eyeball that turned wildly in one socket or a leering tongue that licked convulsively in a boney maw. In the Chantry, they encountered a Revenant, who blew the entire group save Wynne off their feet when they tried to attack him. Wynne later explained a Revenant is an extremely powerful hunger or desire demon possessing the dead body of a warrior; Charlotte sincerely hoped she never encountered another. Killing it had been like trying to take down ten darkspawn at one time as they were constantly overwhelmed by not only its magic, but its mastery of a greatsword that it swung with incredible force into her armor, knocking the wind out of her and her weapons out of her hands.

As Charlotte crawled quickly back to try and avoid getting her head chopped from her shoulders, Zevran surprised her by seeming to appear from thin air and put himself between her and the Revenant. The ancient being looked down with blank confusion at the elf; it possessed no face, only an old helmet with a nose guard like an upside-down arrow. The helm was empty, but the sentience housed inside breathed heavily like a winded old man in cold weather. It stared at Zevran for a prolonged moment before raising its sword behind it while putting out one hand to cast a spell.

"Zevran, look out!" Charlotte rolled over and grabbed her daggers, turning around to throw one at the Revenant and distract it from her comrade. The Revenant saw this and used magical force to pull Charlotte towards it, making her gut roil and her tongue cling to the roof of her mouth. As Charlotte turned, unable to breathe, to meet the blade of her attacker, Zevran laughed at the Revenant and ducked, coming around its back and digging in one of his daggers, his face pulled into a savage smile.

"Worry not, _principessa!_ This thing will not be the end of me!" Zevran danced around the Revenant, twirling his daggers with a little more flourish than necessary and grinning widely. The Revenant issued an eery battle cry and tried to strike at the elf with its sword, his attention redirected. Alistair appeared from the other side and charged into it, distracting the being long enough for Wynne to cast a torrent of ice at the Revenant's upper body and head.

With the Revenant frozen, Alistair and Zevran struck it down, shattering it into a thousand pieces. The body fell, torn asunder, and the desiccated claw released its blade, which clattered on the ground. The two men looked at each other – one glowering and the other with an easy smile – before Zevran stepped aside and allowed Alistair to help Charlotte to her feet. Shaking, she went to retrieve her daggers and sheathed them, giving him a short nod to let her know she was O.K.

"Is it just me," Alistair said, his voice dry, "Or is it getting worse as we go up?" Alistair was very careful to stand near Charlotte, keeping her separated from the tawny elf. Almost imperceptibly, Zevran chuckled.

Wynne looked up at the ceiling and replied darkly, "When blood magic is used, only the worst can happen."

"Why would anyone do this? Who could unleash so much horror?" Charlotte studied the chapel; it was in disarray, with burnt out candles strewn all over the floor. They had found a dead Chantry sister near the nave, her eyes frozen open in terror. As Leliana had said, "I do not know what disturbs me more; this poor woman's cruel death, or that she is the first body we've found on this floor." The looks they had exchanged had been significant; if there were no bodies, did that mean many were alive, or abominations?

"I cannot say for sure, but I suspect this is at the hands of a mage named Uldred." Wynne looked furious as she studied the dead Sister's body once more. "He always craved… power."

"Whoever it is, they are very malicious, yes?" Zevran wiped his blade against his leg, more idly speculative than the rest of the group. "They do not intend to lose."

"Why do you say that?" asked Leliana.

Zevran shrugged, "They have unleashed all the danger at once: they've angered the force of soldiers belonging to the Chantry, certainly, but they have also trapped themselves behind an army of demons. There is no going back for them."

"That is an astute observation," Wynne said, eyeing the elf coolly. "I imagine Uldred has no intention of negotiating peace." Wynne issued a heavy sigh and began to head towards the next room, "Which means we cannot save him, even if we try." Alistair and Charlotte looked at each other, silently wondering what lay ahead.

Around the next hallway, they came upon the storerooms of the Formari, the Tranquil mages who sold wares to fund the needs of the Circle. It appeared deserted; they were about to move on when an odd shuffling sound caught their attention. Everyone drew their weapons and crept towards a small room that had been constructed out of shorter stone walls in the large hall. As they drew closer, a dull voice spoke to them.

"Please don't go into the storerooms; they are a terrible mess and I must clean them." A Tranquil mage emerged, his expression both blank and a little morose as he looked at them all.

"Owain!" Wynne exclaimed, her tone relieved. "You're alive; I'm so glad. Are you hurt?"

"I am not injured." Owain answered tonelessly. "What is happening in the Circle?"

"Blood mages, Owain. You must go downstairs or keep yourself hidden. It is not safe here." Wynne reached out kindly, her faced creased with concern. Owain studied her hand as if it were a fascinating specimen, but did not reach back in return. Wynne seemed unbothered by this and simply lowered it away, her expression still warm. Charlotte studied Owain's face with morbid interest; it seemed utterly bizarre to her that anyone could be so hollow, so blank. Her comrades were similarly affected, all wondering at the wrongness of such a state and how one could be made empty of all compassion or feeling.

"I told Niall he should not go, but he insisted. I stayed here." Owain reported; he began to move away to straighten a crate that had fallen, but Wynne stopped him, pushing his shoulder back up so she could see into his face.

"Niall, Owain? Where is he? What was he doing?" Wynne's tone had become confrontational; Charlotte wondered if this Niall was one of the blood mages.

"Niall wanted the Litany of Adralla. I gave it to him, but there were abominations, so I said he should stay. He did not." Owain's gaze hovered slightly beyond Wynne's head; a blue tattoo of the Chantry sun glowed on his forehead. As it caught Charlotte's eye, Owain added: "Maybe he will save us all."

"Wynne," Charlotte interjected, "What does he mean by that?"

The elder witch stepped back from Owain, who resumed his cleaning as if nothing had happened. "The Litany of Adralla is a spell used to resist mind possession or control. If Niall took it, he was probably going to try and fight the blood mages. That poor boy – so foolish…" It was clear Wynne felt responsible as she turned away, her face torn.

"What is it?" Charlotte asked, sensing Wynne's inner turmoil.

Wynne turned back around, obviously ambivalent. "There was so little time… We heard rumors that there was a plan to overthrow the Circle with blood magic. You must understand, such a thing would be disastrous for all mages. Irving came to me and asked me to help him quietly find out who was responsible, but we were misled. An apprentice named Ryia claimed to know of the person behind it, but she led Irving and the other Senior Enchanters into a trap. They had possessed the minds of many Templars. Petra and I barely got the children out alive."

Confused, Alistair asked, "So… what are you saying?"

Wynne sighed, her shoulders lowering in defeat. "That I feel we have failed the mages of the Circle. If Niall sought out the Litany, he took matters into his own hands. If he dies because we couldn't act soon enough… " Wynne's face contorted briefly with pain before smoothing out again as she considered their options. Charlotte endeavored to understand their predicament; she knew little of magic, but from what Wynne said, their next step was clear. "Wynne, if he sought this Litany, does that mean we require similar protection?"

Wynne nodded, "Yes; without it, we risk immediate mind possession upon discovery of the blood coven. Regardless of his fate, we must find the Litany and take it from Niall." Sadly, but with purpose, she resolved, "If he lives, he may join us in our assault against these maleficarum."

"Owain," Wynne turned back to the Tranquil mage, who was solemnly carrying boxes back towards the storeroom, one at a time. "Which way did Niall go?"

Owain lowered the box with care, answering slowly, "Towards the southern side of the Tower." Owain turned to go back and retrieve more of the stores; Wynne stopped him, trying to grab his attention.

"Owain, you must go hide. Go downstairs and join the others in the storage caves."

Owain replied, "The storeroom is my responsibility; I must clean it and put it back into a fit state." Wynne sighed again, "Owain, I understand, but right now you must think of your safety. If you are hurt, you will be unable to fulfill that responsibility at all!"

Owain nodded, "The stockroom is familiar. I prefer to be here. I will go inside." With a bow, he wished them luck, "I hope things go back to the way they were." Owain drifted away, turning back only to pull the door shut behind him with a definitive creak that echoed through the hall. All were briefly silent as they contemplated their next move.

"Alright, we'll go look for this Niall." Charlotte pressed on, taking point and the others fell into line at her flanks, each withdrawing their weapons and lost in thoughts of demon-possessed monsters and mind domination.

They ascended to the third floor. The hallway was absolutely silent; as they crept forward, voices floated back to them, arguing amongst themselves.

"No! We musn't fall back! We have to keep going…."

"Hadrian, Uldred has left us! Let us escape now while we still can!"

"You're a traitor to your kind, Gloriana… I will not stand for this…."

"Hey!" A male mage caught sight of the group, his hand raised in accusation. "Invaders! Kill them!"

The mages drew their staves; Charlotte could see the woman, her face contorted with rage. With small blades, each cut themselves to increase their power. As their weapon of choice dripped from their veins and sprayed its foul magic into the air, Charlotte could feel the tingle at the edges of her mind from attempted possession. Before she could panic, a great expulsion of energy from Wynne's stave forced the maleficarum to be on the defensive, giving the others just enough of a window to stage their attack. Quickly, each of them took one mage down, Alistair overwhelming one with his strength, while the other three dashed in and behind, slicing their enemies down where they were most vulnerable.

Leliana brought down the female mage, the one who had been called Gloriana by her conspirators. She incapacitated her with the pommel of a dagger and a swift kick from her knee, making her cry out with pain as her staff fell from her hand. Leliana went to stab her, but Gloriana fought back, emitting a spell from her hand that made the room swoop alarmingly fast around Leliana's head. Leliana fell over, her weapon lost on the ground.

"No you don't!" That wave of energy which had surprised the abomination in the library washed the sickness away from Leliana's mind; she could hear her enemy crumple with a whimper. As Charlotte helped Leliana to her feet, Alistair glowered over the female mage, now cowering pathetically on the floor, prepared to drain her mana again if necessary.

"Please," she begged, "Don't kill me. I-"

Before she could finish, Zevran swiftly bent to one knee and slit her throat from behind, his face cold. Charlotte was startled by the move and watched as a wave of red began to wash down the woman's chest, her eyes rolling back and her mouth twitching as her life gurgled away.

"_Basta_," Zevran said in a clipped tone. "She was a pretty liar." He wiped off his blade and sheathed it, now expressionless. After a moment's shocked silence, Alistair joked, "We gave you mercy. Couldn't we have said the same thing about you?"

Zevran looked at him briefly without emotion before cracking a bright smile. "Why Alistair, did you just call me pretty?"

The Grey Warden shook his head, "Forget I said it." Alistair moved away, his face disgusted. The group clattered out, all disturbed by the death of the "pretty lady" whose actions had shattered the lives of so many.

They had to check each room for Niall; mostly they found demons and shambling corpses, who were wandering in vacant hunger until they saw Charlotte's band, triggering them into a vicious attack. There were a few abominations, but they were easily overwhelmed as the group worked better in tandem, gaining experience in how to dispatch the foul creatures. There were even a few rooms which were eerily empty, with nary a chair out of place, as if the chaos that had descended upon the Circle simply passed them by.

Finally, they opened the door to a smaller chamber and found Niall lying on the floor near the dead body of an abomination. Around him lay three other dead mages, all looking as if they were peacefully asleep, but completely unresponsive to Wynne's healing.

"What could have caused this?" Alistair asked, perturbed. Wynne's expression was raw, her hands lowering shakily as she faced her inability to save them. "I do not know – possibly a demon of sloth. They must have killed it from the Fade after it put them into an interminable sleep." She swallowed hard, pale-faced and upset. "Search Niall's body for the Litany of Adralla, please."

Charlotte squeezed the old woman's shoulder and did as she bade; in the pocket of Niall's robe, a scroll was rolled. Charlotte withdrew it and handed it to Wynne, who confirmed it was the spell they sought. "I will cast it when we are close to Uldred and the others; it does not work indefinitely." Wynne slowly came to her feet, her eyes still on the younger mages who had been lost. After a respectful pause, she pushed forward and the others joined her, Charlotte glancing once more over her shoulder at the sleeping bodies of the dead. Less than two months ago, she had never seen one. Now, she had to leave three of them on the floor like shed pieces of clothing. Charlotte quietly closed the door behind her.

They reached the southernmost end of the Tower; one door led to the fourth level, the other into the office of the First Enchanter. Wynne led them into the First Enchanter's office, curious to see if anyone had taken refuge – or lay in wait to attack – behind the door. The room was empty; it was also in disarray, but not as badly as the others. Charlotte looked around and saw the spines of heavy spellbooks in tall shelves mixed with statues and trinkets. The room suggested an intellectual man of experience; it seemed unlikely he would still be alive, but perhaps he would surprise them. For the sake of the Circle and their chances against the Blight, Charlotte certainly hoped he would.

Just as they were about to exit, an odd clicking made them freeze into place. Charlotte quickly withdrew her daggers and swung around, eyes peeled for an oncoming attack. The others looked with her, eyes rising to the ceiling as they saw no source of the noise on the ground.

"What the…" there was sort of clatter and a shuffle; a book slipped off the top of a high shelf and landed with a thud on the ground. As they raised their weapons in preparation, a crow danced forward at the top of the shelf, its wings twitching at its sides. Charlotte's eyes narrowed with suspicion; there was something familiar about that bird. The crow cawed, tilting its head to one side and regarding them with a beady eye.

"Good gracious, what is that doing in here?" Wynne exclaimed, her tone bewildered. The others were equally confused – all except Charlotte, who stepped forward, putting away her weapons and crossing her arms.

"Morrigan," she said, her voice hard. "Get down from there. Now."

The crow danced to one side and cawed, twitching its wings again. Unimpressed, Charlotte raised one eyebrow at the bird. Finally, the crow raised its wings and cawed again before taking flight. Mid-descent, it transformed and Morrigan strolled forward, her expression both amused and chagrined, before stopping in front of the irate Grey Warden.

"What are you doing here? I specifically told you to stay hidden and _not cast any spells_." Charlotte said the last part through her teeth, completely missing Alistair's outrage and Wynne's open-mouthed shock. Zevran and Leliana were both unsurprised, the former mostly amused at the marsh witch's daring.

"Indeed you did. Had you any education of magic, you would know that my transformation is not exactly casting a spell. Nor need you fear anyone recognizing me as apostate; if the Templars did see me, all they would recognize was a harmless bird." This was muttered as Morrigan did not meet her comrade's eyes, obviously not wishing to face her anger.

"Those yellow eyes… You are a Shapeshifter. That is a very… _risky_ talent." Wynne closed her mouth and it thinned with disapproval, her mind occupied with Morrigan's apostacy and possible danger.

"How quaint… I do not know how to address an inmate of the Circle. Do they just call you "mage"?" Morrigan sneered, her arms crossing defensively. Charlotte intervened.

"That's enough; what are you doing here?" She glared at Morrigan, clearly brooking no nonsense. Morrigan sighed and whipped her hands up with frustration. "Seeking something I seem to be unable to find." Seeing that this was not an acceptable answer, she fleshed out her explanation. "My mother was once divested of a grimoire by a most annoying Templar hunter. Tis a book of spells that Flemeth has dabbled in throughout her long life." Morrigan eyes seemed to glow as she regarded Charlotte, "With the Circle of Magi in such disorder, it occurs to me that this might be the perfect time to recover the tome from their possession, so that I may learn from her closely guarded secrets."

Charlotte's mouth opened slightly, at a loss what to say. Morrigan clearly understood that the Circle was in trouble and her priority – knowing Charlotte and the others were inside, knowing they could be in danger – was to find her mother's grimoire?

"This is what Flemeth sent you for," Charlotte said, her temper rising. "To retrieve this. She must have seen the future and sent you along so you could steal it while we fought demons for our lives!" Angrily, Charlotte withdrew her dagger. Morrigan's face contracted with surprise; she backed away from Charlotte's blade, her hands raised in surrender.

"Charlotte, that is not why." Morrigan's voice was sharp with authority as she tried to claim the woman's attention. Behind Charlotte, the others also drew their weapons, prepared to take Morrigan down. "No, you must listen to me. That is not why I was sent with you – it is a consequence of escaping my mother!" Morrigan raised her voice and backed away another step, not attempting to cast any magic. Recognizing what that signified, Charlotte stayed the others with one hand, her dagger still at the ready as she demanded, "Then what was your purpose?"

Morrigan's forehead wrinkled; as she wrestled with her answer, Charlotte raised her blade, eliciting a response. "Alright! Alright! The truth is I do not know; that is why I seek the grimoire, to learn more of my mother's secrets so that I may understand what she intends to do with me." Morrigan stared into Charlotte's eyes, her own imploring, hands still raised defensively in front. Charlotte stared deeply into her comrade's gaze, measuring the truth of her answer.

"Why should I believe you?" Charlotte retorted, wanting to be convinced. The witch had begun to feel like a trusted friend; they had shared several nice moments together alone by the campfire, talking about their lives. Though they were different in almost every way, they shared a mutual respect for the other's courage and intelligence. Charlotte did not wish to cut her down. It hurt to imagine it.

"If I were you," Morrigan replied hesitantly, "I would not. However, I am not your enemy. I will admit my methods would seem unsavory and for that I apologize. But," Morrigan met Charlotte's gaze, her own burning with sincerity, "I am _not _attempting to betray you." Morrigan slowly lowered her hands; jutting out her chin, she did not look away, awaiting the Grey Warden's sentence.

After a time, Charlotte came out of her defensive crouch and put her weapon away, the veridium blade sliding cleanly against its leather sheath. "And what do you intend to do with it, exactly?"

"What? Are you serious?" Alistair did not put away his weapons, still leaning on one knee as if to charge. Charlotte turned and nodded at him, indicating he should stand down. "I believe her, Alistair. What enemy of ours hasn't attacked at the first opportunity?" Alistair glowered unhappily, but did as he was bid, giving Morrigan a baleful expression that stated clearly his lack of trust. Leliana, Wynne and Zevran all followed suit; Charlotte addressed Morrigan again, dissatisfied that the woman had not yet answered for the urgency of this tome. "What do you need this book for?"

Morrigan frowned, distrustful and secretive. "I do not wish to say in front of the Chantry pet." She jerked her chin at Wynne, who tutted irritably and did not move, putting on her best school-marm face of authority.

Charlotte sighed; "Morrigan, Wynne has helped keep us alive. If you're going to tell me the truth at all, spit it out now." As an afterthought, she added, "Wynne also owes us a debt; she cannot say anything about a Warden recruit that would endanger our mission. Correct?" Charlotte turned to raise her eyebrow at Wynne, who nodded, but looked unhappy at the promise. Charlotte looked expectantly at Morrigan. Finally, the witch exhaled in defeat.

"I will study it for spells used to preserve Flemeth's long life and see what, if anything, they have to do with me. I will not cast spells upon you in your sleep. No matter how great the temptation," Morrigan said the last part with a glare at Alistair. The junior Grey Warden merely appeared amused in response, knowing full and well that if Morrigan ever threatened him that way in reality that Charlotte would cut her head off. Alistair grinned.

"Seems perfectly reasonable," Zevran agreed, surprising them all. Charlotte stared at him for a moment in disbelief, before turning back to Morrigan and scrutinizing her closely.

Though the witch looked defiant and uncomfortable, she did not look deceitful. Charlotte decided that she was telling the truth she knew, but also felt that this book could lead to knowledge which would affect them all. With that in mind, she qualified her approval. "Very well, but any developments that come from this book will be immediately brought to my attention," trying to convey her severity, Charlotte gazed with unrelenting intensity into her comrade's face. "If you fail in that order, there will be consequences. Understood?"

The witch, despite her dislike for orders, regained some of her preening haughtiness and nodded, her shoulders fanning back out with confidence. Charlotte nodded shortly to indicate their accord and then issued another command, "We will search for the book after we have attempted to restore the First Enchanter to the Knight-Commander. We have no time to waste." With that, the group moved out and up towards the third floor, an uneasy settling happening between them as Morrigan's unexpected presence altered the dynamic.

* * *

_"Kneel before me, inferior beings of the Mundane!"_

Charlotte watched with almost dispassionate weariness as Uldred transformed into a pride demon, towering over them by several lengths, his shadow casting her entire party in murky darkness. Despite the anxiety she had felt at the thought of an abomination when they began their quest, now she had come to recognize that these abominations were merely the physical manifestations of one man's foolish pride. At least they could be cut down; in the coming months as she fought for the support their cause deserved, the kind of pride she would encounter would not be so easily dispatched from her path.

Uldred roared and they scattered, the mages who were able to fight (namely, Wynne and Morrigan) taking a safe distance from the spiky claws of the pride demon, while the others found various positions of attack to support them. Leliana put herself between the demon and a terrified, aching huddle of mages who had been tied against their will and slowly tortured over the last several days as Uldred brought them into his fold. It seemed a good number had given in; Charlotte couldn't entirely blame them, having watched Uldred electrocute a young mage who tried to resist him when she and the others first broke in. It had looked unspeakably painful and she wasn't sure how much of that kind of pain she herself would have been able to stand before begging for it to end.

As Leliana drew her bow and shot from a distance, Alistair took the forefront of the attack and used his ability to overwhelm with strength to sufficiently occupy Uldred from batting down lighter warriors. Charlotte and Zevran circled the hideous beast, sliding in to get a good critical hit before quickly withdrawing to avoid his tail – also covered with spikes of purple flesh that looked like it was carved from stone – or his enormous hands, which whistled through the air as they swung overhead and left behind a startlingly strong wind.

Other abominations and demons appeared at Uldred's command. For a moment, Charlotte felt her chest tighten with fear that they wouldn't be able to all get out alive. Then she began shouting orders, focusing Morrigan on protecting those on the floor from sneak attacks of Shades and demons, while Wynne was in charge of restoring energy and healing those who were injured. Uldred roared with anger as Alistair scored a devastating blow to his left hand; in retaliation, the power-hungry mage struck Alistair across his side with the other claw, sending him flying almost to the other end of the Harrowing Chamber and momentarily shocking everyone else.

"ALISTAIR!" Charlotte swung and danced in a deranged twirl to avoid the hissing attack of a Shade. Uldred struck out at Leliana, whose strangled cry tore through Charlotte like an all-consuming flame. Her people were getting hurt; furious, Charlotte kicked at the Shade, knocking it with enough force that it emitted a confused screech before dying from a decisive cut of her blade. Across the chamber, Zevran fought valiantly against an abomination, cavorting from foot to foot as he distracted the beast and then cut at it, causing it to shrill displeasure as it struggled to catch him.

Ignoring all the other enemies swarming the chamber, Charlotte rushed at Uldred. Alistair was barely conscious, lying on the floor. His shoulder throbbed and something sticky and warm was dripping down his forehead. As the battle swam in his vision, he saw Charlotte crouched low and weaving rapidly through the dead bodies and howling fiends of magical misfortune. Her face was contorted with fury, her focus absolute, as she readied herself for her attack. Alistair wanted to yell at her, force her to stop – Uldred was too much, she was so small, even with her battle prowess she could not take him by herself – but his voice could not be roused and he moved with a grunt, jerking forward only to rest again as his body protested against the effort.

Zevran saw her as well. All of them watched, time appearing to be temporarily suspended, as Charlotte bent low and projected herself upward at the exact moment Uldred turned. Chaos reigned in the circular chamber; the mages of the Circle all watched in various degrees of desperation and fear as the battle raged on. Most of the abominations who had been part of Uldred's force were now dead. A few demons called from the Fade remained, but were easily occupied by the powerful troop of the Grey Wardens. As Wynne tried to cast a healing spell at Alistair, Morrigan issued a downpour of electricity over Uldred's head, hoping it would buy Charlotte a moment to strike. He screamed; Leliana was at his feet, scrambling back into a firing position now that he was distracted. The lightning storm illuminated the center of the carnage, throwing a stark, white-blue light over the bodies of the fallen and the twisted expressions of Uldred and Charlotte. As her comrades held their breath, the girl warden raised her blade and landed on Uldred's back, sinking her dagger deep into his neck. Uldred roared; with a battlecry of her own, Charlotte raised the other dagger and dug it into Uldred's eye. The chamber filled with a terrible scream of pain. Uldred's tail swung – Zevran's heart rose into his throat – as Charlotte reached for something at her side.

Uldred turned as if he were looking for someone behind him. When he opened his mouth to roar in frustration, Charlotte chucked something small into his throat. The abomination's mouth closed with a _snap _that echoed through the chamber. Abadoning her weapons, Charlotte jumped from Uldred and rolled, coming up on her hands to fix her enemy with a hateful glare.

"MORRIGAN – FIRE. NOW!" Charlotte reached over and threw herself across the trembling mages, looking at Uldred one last time before turning away. Morrigan cast as she was told; Uldred went to face her, his maw opening to scream before he charged her. The fireball went into the pride demon's mouth and, as he had earlier, he swallowed it, grinning with arrogant satisfaction that it could do him no harm.

Uldred erupted.

With an almighty explosion of sound, Uldred came apart, his flesh ripping into shreds that went in every direction. Zevran managed to fall to the floor and cover his head, avoiding an especially large piece of flesh which pasted his foe to the wall, killing it instantly. Wynne and Morrigan also fell to the ground, overwhelmed by the force of the explosion. Every demon in the room close to their master were simply torn away, their tether to the corporeal plane violently dismembered. Alistair felt and heard the impact from far away, his consciousness a thin string clinging on from his need to see Charlotte alive. He felt no pain from the shower of energy that poured over him; only a distant discomfort that pushed him closer to the precipice of senseless relief.

There was a long pause before anyone stirred. Many were knocked out or simply pushed down by the force of the spell. The moment she could release herself from its oppression, Charlotte was up, coughing and injured, but determined to find everyone and ensure their survival, to get them healing.

"Wynne!" Charlotte's voice rang throughout the chamber, still hazy with smoke that lingered lazily above the bomb site. "Wynne!" Charlotte pushed herself from the ground and checked to see how her wards were faring. The mages she had thrown herself over were grimacing, but alive. Charlotte came unsteadily to her feet.

"What in the Maker's name was that?" Wynne reappeared from behind a sticky wall of Uldred; she still had the energy to look outraged. "What did you do, you foolhardy girl?" Morrigan staggered out next to the elder enchanter. Both were dirty with exploded abomination and soot.

"It was a shock bomb," Charlotte coughed again, this time much harder. She had inhaled something when Uldred exploded. With an irritable flick of her hand, Wynne healed her, instantly relieving the feeling of internal charring Charlotte had been hacking on. "You combined a potion of shock with fire? You could have gotten us all killed!" Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief and grinned a little, abashed but not at the same time. "But it worked, didn't it?"

From the other side of the room, a hearty laugh began to echo richly through the chamber. "Madness! I love this job!" Zevran emerged, his face smeared with red yuckiness, an enormous grin on his face. Leliana also appeared unharmed, her expression a little dizzy as she continued to throw out protective arms around several exhausted mages.

A loud groan roused Charlotte's memory, "Alistair!" Slipping and sliding on the death all over the ground, Charlotte went to him with urgency. Wynne met her there, helping Charlotte turn the large warrior over to assess the seriousness of his injuries.

"Oh, Alistair," Charlotte tried to remove some of the remnants of Uldred from her comrade's face. There was so much blood; with a sickening lurch of her stomach, she realized most of it was his.

"He's dying," Wynne told her. The woman was very pale and near the end of her ability for exertion. Automatically, Morrigan went to her and placed one hand on hers, causing Wynne to turn in surprise. Morrigan scowled but said nothing, focusing her attention on Charlotte's agonized expression. Wynne let it be, understanding sinking in, and concentrated her energy on Alistair. Pulling from Morrigan's mana, she cast a healing spell over his body, trying to target those areas most damaged with generous portions of energy.

Slowly, Alistair healed, his bones and muscles reassembling, the tide of life leaving him beginning to slow. He gained some consciousness back and opened his eyes; when he saw Charlotte, leaning close over him and torn up with worry, he smiled. "It's working," Charlotte stroked Alistair's cheek, so happy she wanted to kiss him, but being careful until he was safe. "Hello," Alistair murmured. Charlotte laughed shakily, a tear cleaning a trail through the dirt on her cheek.

Alistair was restored; Wynne gasped as her magic snapped back, finally having reached her limit, her partial presence in the Fade abruptly ending. Exhausted, Wynne leaned back, on the verge of passing out. To her amazement, she felt a healing aura wash over her and turned her head to see where it had come from.

"Wynne," hearing the familiar voice of gravel rumble her name was like a comforting breath of fresh air. "What in the devil have you gotten yourself into this time?"

* * *

An edit: The mess hall would be downstairs and I fudged it and wrote "up". It has been fixed :)


	23. The Hooded Man and the Public Enemy

Morrigan found the next few hours rather diverting.

To begin with, Charlotte ordered her into hawk form before they went to face the Templars, stepping discreetly out of sight from goggling onlookers who might be conscious enough to learn the witch's secret. Once in the hallway, Morrigan transformed and took flight, landing lightly on Charlotte's shoulder. To Morrigan's amusement, the young woman was not entirely comfortable with this arrangement, finding the precarious wobbling of Morrigan's person on her shoulder a little disconcerting. But she bore it with equanimity, and organized the others into an orderly lineup that would progress both expediently and with thoughtful consideration to injuries as they descended to the first floor.

Charlotte was nervous with anticipation; if she managed to pull this off, it would be an incredible deed - not just for the Blight or the mages, but as a measurement of her persuasive powers in general. Though it had all seemed like a good idea when caught up in the rush of their plight, she wondered now how smart it had been to supersede the Knight-Commander's authority with such careless abandon. He might snub her on principle.

Wynne was far too weak to heal anyone further, so the mages who were hurt and bound were left in their ties – though significantly loosened to provide a modicum of comfort, the Knight-Commander's ego be damned – and studied carefully to ensure those most at risk were given a quick go-over by Morrigan. Though her healing was far inferior to Wynne's, it held death at bay and that was what mattered.

First Enchanter Irving was alive and still sporting a rather amazing amount of pluck, despite his experiences. He had a quiet, steady manner that Charlotte felt veiled an underlying fire of spirit. He may not be a man of quick temper, but she did not take him for a fool easily swayed or manipulated. Whatever he fought for, he fought for it well. Right now, he was weak and grey-faced, but he was ready to face the Templars and save his mages, even if he had to crawl down the stairs.

Morrigan watched beadily as the group placed themselves according to injuries and importance for the upcoming dance of diplomacy. Alistair was not entirely himself, but was much recovered and assisted Zevran in supporting the First Enchanter down the stairs. Wynne followed them, white-faced but ever determined, while Leliana remained with the mages still in the Harrowing Chamber to attend to their wounds with what little salve they had between them, as well as to provide comfort in words delivered by a pleasingly soft voice, which Charlotte thought could do them no end of good at the moment. Looking them all over, she sincerely hoped that the Templars would listen to reason - and that they would not question the presence of a hunting hawk on her shoulder. Alistair had warned her that Templars could sense, even see and taste, magic when it was being used. However, he said that Morrigan's shapeshifting was so different than anything they would have ever encountered that they might miss it altogether. He added that when he tuned into his own senses, she gave off a gamey, yellow kind of feel, which made Wynne and Zevran snort with laughter. When Morrigan looked severe – Charlotte had to hand it to her, that she could pull off such a human expression with a beak – Alistair hastily added that her transformation was complete enough that even a trained Templar might overlook it as simply an intelligent animal.

The group made their weary way back down to the first floor. Along the route, they found a Templar mad from days spent in some kind of magical cage; he screamed wildly at their presence, convinced they were demons. Irving shook his head and said nothing could be done for him until they'd spoke to the Knight-Commander. They would need several mages to undo the spell. On the way to the Great Hall, Petra was retrieved from the storage caves by Wynne and sent to tend to the injured in the Harrowing Chamber. Before she left, the young woman did some work on her mentor and the First Enchanter, who smiled gratefully through his grizzled beard and walked a little more surely as they rounded the corner to knock on the Great Hall doors.

No, the part that entertained Morrigan the most - apart from the screaming Templar - and was branded in her memory forever was when the Templars finally let Charlotte in. How imposing she could be when the occasion called for it. Morrigan smirked internally at their leader's growth; she had begun with the kind of certainty that only a noble upbringing could afford: automatic response to duty marred with hesitation and the shock brought on by a sudden lurch into uncertainty. Once so hindered, now Charlotte had finally begun to dispatch with the formalities, accepting the mantle of de facto Warden-Commander rather gracefully.

After an insistent rap on the door, Charlotte explained their mission and announced her title as the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. Behind her, Zevran looked impressed and Alistair smiled a little, exhausted but approving of her decision to assume the proper title. There was a shocked scrambling on the other side, followed by muffled shouts and the barked questioning of Knight-Commander Greagoir, which was much clearer, and who was incredulous at such a story. Confounded by Charlotte's calmly authoritative tone, then roused by Irving's hoarse voice calling to him through the doors reassuring him that Charlotte was telling the truth, Knight-Commander Greagoir had the barricades removed. Frantic scuffling was accompanied by men shouting and the whine of metal grinding against metal. Finally, the doors were opened slowly, a waiting force of Templars on the other side with their swords drawn in case it was a terrible trick.

"Irving! By the Maker!" Greagoir stepped forward after a hair's breathe of hesitation, pushing through his men. His expression was nothing short of astonished as he took it all in. Morrigan could hardly contain her glee to imagine it from his perspective: in strolls this confident young woman with a hawk on her shoulder, closely followed by her fellows at arms who carried a non-possessed First Enchanter, with a trusted healer making up the tail-end, clearly ready for the fight. To add to the confusion, Morrigan issued a loud "_Cree!_" and flapped her wings, almost cackling. Charlotte practically took a look around as if she were considering buying the place, her expression inscrutable, only a slight uptick in the beat of her heart giving away her nerves.

"Well then," Charlotte smiled, prepared to win the Knight-Commander over. "I should make a full report, don't you think?"

* * *

Where Morrigan was diverted, Charlotte was internally enduring a mental rampage of controversies and realizations.

First of all, as soon as the Knight-Commander sat her down in an office on the fourth floor – reached by picking through a parade of dead bodies to be cleared by scowling and suspicious Templars not at all convinced by the story of the Acting Commander of the Grey Wardens – it became clear just how out of her element she was. The Knight-Commander, for all his gruff deference in the polite company of Chantry superiors, was grasping to restore control into his own gauntleted hands. He interrogated her openly, undaunted by her title presumptive or her smiling charm. He admitted to being impressed with her work throughout the tower, acknowledging the great clearing they had done on behalf of the Templars, but was openly skeptical of her motives and demanding of her forthright account about everything.

Trying not to stutter, Charlotte endured his barked questions and hostile glares. Irving occasionally interceded, attempting to defend her, but was so weak and weary he was almost led away. Following his stout protests, the First Enchanter was left in his seat, but remained mostly silent thereafter as he fought to stay awake.

"As I explained, Knight-Commander, we came by way of the dungeons. There, we discovered the mage Aneiren Surana, near death, and brought him to the first floor of the Circle where we fought a powerful demon. Wynne healed us all and explained the situation. We decided to act quickly for fear that the Rite of Annulment would come too soon for the remaining mages to be saved." Breathing deeply to release some of her pent up anger, she added graciously, "We understood, of course, that under the circumstances you had no other solution, but we hoped to save both the mages and your possessed Templar forces who had been taken prisoner. It seemed the least we could do." She smiled thinly; in truth, the only Templars they had found inside were entirely too far gone to be reasoned with. One was under the spell of a desire demon in his quarters, convinced he was living as a farmer with his wife. He and his comrades had to be cut down with the demons which controlled them. All too aware that the Knight-Commander might have taken this amiss, Charlotte had ordered Morrigan to burn some of them and they had placed the bodies in positions of one fallen in battle. Hopefully, their deaths would be blamed on demons rather than the Grey Warden order. Even she couldn't ignore the disparity between how many mages they had saved versus how many Templars.

Seeming to read her thoughts, the Knight-Commander's stormy eyes narrowed. "I have noticed, _Warden-Commander_ that none of those men survived. What became of them?"

Behind her, Alistair tried to mask his worry. He thought Charlotte was holding up remarkably well, all things considered, but could sense her patience thinning as the Knight-Commander wore on her temper. Alistair was quickly learning her vast capability for turbulent emotion. If the Knight-Commander pushed her too hard, she might flare-up in a show of such ferocity that all hope of a diplomatic alliance would be lost. Alistair gulped.

Maintaining a pose of flat, cheerful calm, Charlotte replied, "It appears they were fighting a band of demons. We came too late to save most of them. Unfortunately, those that remained had been… compelled by a desire demon. They were quite far gone when we tried to talk to them and the result was that we had to kill your men along with the demon. She commanded them to fight us."

Still suspicious, the Knight-Commander thought that over, scrutinizing Charlotte and clearly unhappy with her explanations. The Knight-Commander did not take the story for a lie, but he sensed there were missing pieces of information to be certain. Her story was fantastic, but during her hasty questioning Wynne had credited it unequivocally and described many of the same details Charlotte was now sharing. However, this young woman's guarded manner did not speak well of her intentions or perhaps some of the actions she had taken behind his back. He felt strongly that she should have approached him for permission and, while he did not miss the veiled apology in her words, it was nonetheless one that bore no true shame, despite its offering.

Charlotte, for her part, was struggling with an almighty frustration born of the horrifying realization of just how ill-equipped she was to be the _Warden-Commander, _as Greagoir had put it. As she tried to anticipate his questions, it occurred to her how little she truly knew: could she tell him about the Archdemon to convince him of the Blight, or was that a Grey Warden secret? She'd gotten the impression it was from Alistair, but felt irritated by her inability to come up with a better explanation for their conviction. Further, his ungracious reception of their help made her realize how foolish she had been to intervene so quickly in Redcliffe, without question or pause to really consider the ramifications. She might have paused somewhat, but when it came down to it the decision had already been made for her once her comrades expressed their desire to help. If she was honest with herself, she had desperately wanted something to do that might restore some of their good name, especially once she realized Teagan was sympathetic to their cause. In her heart of hearts, the thought of his support and that of his brother had been overwhelmingly comforting. She had truly hoped they could bring back some order to the world for her and possibly tell her what to do. It had become all too clear that had been too much to wish for, and foolish to boot. After all, what could two noblemen teach the Grey Wardens?

And now she had probably made a political enemy, one whom could cause her quite a bit of trouble. Irving was ready to offer his support, but Greagoir was furious he had been so blatantly superseded. She couldn't deny her decision to disregard his wishes had been foolhardy, but when had Templars ever been known for their proclivity for reason? It was probably more the indifference of his authority that angered him, rather than the actions she had taken, since the truth was that he would have refused to help them either way. Now, she had to do her best to retrieve the situation. She couldn't allow him to hand them over to the guards at Fort Drakon, so that had to be dealt with somehow. And seeing what Morrigan and Wynne could do in battle had convinced her they needed mages – as many as they could wrest from the Chantry's sweating white fist.

"Knight-Commander," she shot out frankly, cutting across his words as he prepared to question her again. "I completely understand your concern. A great deal has taken place and we are just as eager to align ourselves accordingly now that we are all together, but my people need rest. They've been badly injured and have not eaten for some time. Not to mention that the evidence of our exertions are currently drying in flakes all over our skin and armor. I would ask that we be given quarters and some food. A bath would also be most appreciated. Once we've had rest and sustenance, we can continue our discussion."

The Knight-Commander wanted to bellow - being told what to do by this strange upstart of a woman was outrageous - but he restrained himself. She had, when all was said and done, performed a great service to the Templar Order and Circle of Magi, and should be thus rewarded. "Of course," he assented after a few moments of red-faced silence. "I will have some space cleared for you on this floor."

Charlotte had seen _that _coming; of course he would want to keep an eye on them. She didn't care, either way, they were getting a much needed – not to mention much deserved – break and it would give her time to converse with Alistair and gather her wits about her.

Fortunately, many of the Tranquil servants had not died in the attack. The kitchen and mess hall were on the first floor and had been sealed from danger when the Templars retreated. With peaceful efficiency, they scrubbed two barracks chambers clean to allow some Templars rest and also accommodate Charlotte's party. The disadvantage was that Morrigan could not transform, being that the barracks were rather open, and so Charlotte asked permission to use her "hawk" to send a message to the others at their camp. Knight-Commander Greagoir didn't like it.

"There are more of you?" After a moment's reflection, he sighed, unable to see the harm in it (or rather, unable to devise a sufficiently reasonable complaint against it.) "Very well, do what you must." At a swift pace, he exited, muttering to himself. First Enchanter Irving was taken to the infirmary along with the other mages and survivors, to be examined and revived to full health by the Circle's remaining Healers.

Charlotte blew out a sigh of relief and quickly attached a small scroll to Morrigan's clawed foot. Morrigan, not one to have carried parcels for others even as a human, squawked in haughty dismay.

"You hush," Charlotte admonished quietly, eyes searching for nosy Templars. "This is the only way to keep you safe, you ungrateful ingrate. Now go to Sten and Mastodon and let them know what's happened. No storming the Tower for either of them – be sensible. As for you, you shall _not_ return. I will search for that book of yours and bring it to you. No argument." She gave the bird her most severe look and then extended her arm so that Morrigan could depart through one of the high windows. It did not escape Charlotte's notice that Templars were allowed sunlight, whereas mages were not. How many of those children, she wondered bitterly, had even seen the outside?

Once Morrigan had flapped her wings and disappeared through the window, Charlotte allowed everyone some rest before unburdening herself to Alistair. The food brought them was plain, but there was enough there for them to stuff themselves: ale, soft red apples, some white Redcliffe Cheddar, and Redcliffe ale bread spread with butter and fruit preserves to dip it in. Charlotte had explained a little about Grey Warden appetite and the Tranquil – never ones to question an order – had risen to the occasion without gusto, but with exacting precision that she had to admire. She could hardly believe they had managed to produce so much on such short notice, especially under the current conditions. But, she supposed, life must go on.

Once everyone had enjoyed a nap and some food, they took turns having a wash. The bathing facilities were curiously sophisticated for an order of soldiers, but it seemed somehow appropriately ironic that the Chantry would use magical rune stones to ensure their representatives were squeaky clean (physically if not in virtue). Charlotte knew of similar methods being installed into the homes of rich nobles, who were copying the fashion from Orlais. She touched the glittering triggers with curious wonder and was pleased when they released soap and hot water at lightest touch of her command. Once thoroughly washed, Charlotte also took care to clean her soiled linens and changed into fresh ones from her pack, trading her armor for a loose tunic, leggings, and a belt. It was unspeakably delicious to be rid of the cakes of blood and dirt on her person. Relishing it while she could, she returned to the barracks and hung her wet clothes to dry, then braided the unruly curtain of dark red hair back from her face; that done, Charlotte gathered everyone together. After some debate, she had concluded that Zevran and Leliana had proven themselves allies and had a right to know the extent of their troubles. If they were excluded, they could not be helpful in procuring the right kind of information, or in the right way. Considering their past professions, they were probably exactly who she needed for the job. Fortunately, after consulting him, Alistair agreed with her.

"We are in a bad position." Charlotte spoke quietly, eyes always searching for unwanted listeners. They had stolen off to a deserted corner of the barracks. Most Templars were still occupied with clearing up the Circle. Those Senior Enchanters who were well enough and had been assessed for demon possession were timidly casting rejuvenation spells to keep them going, so virtually no one was asleep - or not asleep and eavesdropping. Knight-Commander Greagoir had not yet called for them; Charlotte strongly suspected Wynne and Enchanter Irving had had something to do with that.

Alistair looked unhappy; he knew this was going to come up sooner or later. He sighed, "I know." Leliana and Zevran regarded them both with quizzical expressions, "What do you mean?" Leliana whispered.

Charlotte gave them the full extent of their misfortune, "We don't know hardly anything about being Grey Wardens. We don't know how the darkspawn will attack or when – are they going to send another army now, or years later? The First Blight lasted for over a century – in fact, nearly spanning two hundred years – and the ones ever after had always lasted at least several years by themselves. When can we expect the Archdemon? How do we kill it? These are questions to which we have no answers, because Warden-Commander Duncan was so secretive."

Alistair objected to the slight implied against Duncan, but had to admit she had a point: why had Duncan never considered this kind of decimation to their numbers? Why wouldn't he trust the junior Wardens with what he knew? It had felt increasingly to Alistair and Charlotte as if Duncan had failed quite spectacularly to protect them or teach them anything.

Huffing with frustration, Charlotte went on. "We don't know how to perform a Joining, which is the ceremony needed to make a Grey Warden, and even if we did we'd be admitting people into an Order that has a bounty on its head. We are, put simply, in very hot water and we need to find a clever way out of this to find out as much as we can about our Order and how to end the Blight."

Pushed past the point of resistance, Alistair interjected, "But you cannot tell _anyone _about this. Charlotte came to me and we both agreed that you have proven yourselves allies to us – but, our secrets must be closely guarded. Always. If people found out about us, we might never be able to recruit more fighters to the Order and we could lose everything in the Blight." Exchanging a nod with Charlotte, Alistair added, "We are asking for your help to find any and all information about Blights, the Grey Wardens, and whatever else that can help us. We need your skills and your discretion."

Zevran flashed white teeth in a rakish grin, "But of course. I am very open with what I have to offer."

Leliana was too excited to disparage the elf, replying solemnly to their calling. "Yes; in my duty to the Maker, I can take the burden of what I was taught and put it all to good use. I will not fail you."

Charlotte nodded with satisfaction, "Good. Now, our task is to convince the Knight-Commander to release a contingent of mages for our armies. We also need to ask for a group to be sent to Redcliffe to exorcise Connor. Leliana," Charlotte turned to the rapt bard, who had grown very serious in response to their honesty. "I want you to go into Enchanter Irving's office and steal the grimoire. Morrigan described it clearly: she said it is bound in black leather that is stitched together rather crudely and gives off a distinctive aura. She said anyone who touched it would recognize her mother's magic, if they've encountered her. You have not encountered Flemeth, but I imagine that the book would speak for itself. Seek it out and steal it. I don't break my promises." Leliana gave a brisk gesture of her consent and swiftly departed, seeming to meld into the wall as she slid around it to find her way down to the third floor.

"Very well, Zevran, it's your job in all this to stand by and look handsomely unbothered. Do not betray you are not a Grey Warden – if Knight-Commander Greagoir perceives an opportunity to separate one of my people from me, he will not hesitate to use it. From here on, you are considered a Grey Warden to anyone outside our party, for your own protection. Is that agreeable to you?"

Zevran shrugged, "Provided I must not endure any grueling tests, I am fine with that." Grinning mischieviously at Alistair, the elf confided, "I have never been fond of tests. Then again, all of my experiences are from my time with the Crows. They are of the opinion tests should be painful."

Alistair snorted, momentarily caught up in a feeling of camaraderie, "I don't know what tests you took, but the Grey Wardens aren't much better."

Zevran laughed, "Indeed? Then I would most likely surpass them with flying colors."

Charlotte didn't have the heart to correct his use of the King's Tongue; it would detract from the first moment she hadn't seen the two men sniping at each other. "Good; let's seek out the council of the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter Irving once Leliana has returned."

After a tense wait, Leliana reappeared as easily as she had slid away. The grimoire had been too big to pocket, but fortunately for her, the Templars were far too busy to see her slip into Irving's office or out and back up to the Templar barracks. Charlotte hid the heavy tome in her pack and slipped it under her bunk, sure it would be too telling to try and take it with her to their meeting, though she itched not to let it out of her sight. Fortuitously, a Templar officer came at that very moment to get them at the Knight-Commander's orders; Charlotte, Alistair, Zevran, and Leliana followed him without delay.

Unluckily for them, Knight-Commander Greagoir was not in a better humor. However, he seemed markedly calmer. First Enchanter Irving was also present; Charlotte was somewhat relieved to see that Irving appeared serene, which she assumed was good for them. Knight-Commander noted her careful stock-taking and scowled; where Irving grew more composed, it appeared his partner grew crotchety and sullen. Charlotte pressed her lips together as it occurred to her that this was very much like her mother and father: where her mother had been the peacekeeper, Bryce Cousland could sometimes be the bear, requiring Eleanor's silken manner to soothe him back to good reason.

Trying not to betray her amusement – she often laughed giddily when testing her nerves – Charlotte smiled and thanked the Knight-Commander for his gracious hospitality. "We are much obliged to you, Knight-Commander. Our condition is vastly improved."

Greagoir huffed, but seemed mollified by her genuine gratitude. "You are most welcome."

There was an awkward pause; finally, Knight-Commander Greagoir attempted to breach the divide. "Irving told me of the battle with Uldred. I would have scarcely believed it unless I had seen his remains with my own eyes. That was an impressive feat, Warden."

Recognizing this for the olive branch that it was, Charlotte immediately grabbed hold. "Thank you; I fear that my creative methods were not the best, but considering the circumstances, it could have been much worse." Greagoir gave a brisk nod for that and pushed on, impatient now to get to the point which most concerned him.

"Be that as it may, my duty is first and foremost to the Circle. What do you ask of us in return for your service?"

Deciding to state it plainly, Charlotte produced the treaty they held with the Circle, which she had shrewdly brought in her pack. "We have an agreement with the Circle of Magi that, during a Blight, they are to serve on our side against the darkspawn. That time has come."

Greagoir eyed the treaty, his grizzled face wrinkled with displeasure at the extent of this demand. "But we are still recovering. You cannot possibly expect us to produce an army of fighters when our numbers have suffered so much. If nothing else, there are not enough Templars left to adequately protect the Circle and a mage army outside it."

Behind him, Irving solicitously cleared his throat, "Knight-Commander, if I may, it will take some time to gather the forces needed, but I believe they can be assembled in time for when Warden Charlotte will require them." Irving raised his gray eyebrows slightly at Charlotte, issuing an invitation. She nodded in agreement, "I understand your predicament; however, to borrow your phrasing, 'be that as it may' the fact is that the land will be decimated and entirely lost to Blight sickness and darkspawn Taint if we don't rise, unified, against it." Steeling herself, she added, "Our forces were nearly lost at Ostagar, in case you haven't heard. The death of the King has greatly angered Loghain and he blames the Grey Wardens. We are without his support, but we have chosen not to defect in our duty and retreat to Weisshaupt to the First Warden." Charlotte had quizzed Alistair for this piece of information; truthfully, she'd had no clue who they would have gone to otherwise. "We are determined to stay here and protect Ferelden, even if we are not considered its patriots at this time."

Charlotte forbore to sit on her hands; an old habit she had learned to control anxiety. It would be childish now, but she itched for it nonetheless. This point was crucial; she had to put a pleasing spin on her renegade status that would quiet the Knight-Commander's suspicion and secure his support. Considering his fervent focus on duty and position, she hoped that he would swallow her twist on Loghian's decree. There was a long moment of tense silence.

Finally, the Knight-Commander relented, grunting and lowering the treaty to the surface of his desk. "That is admirable," he allowed – barely. It was obvious that he struggled to part with the words. Charlotte held her breath, trying to keep her face impassive as her heart leapt and did the Marigold in her chest. Greagoir considered it, understanding that Charlotte was now a traitor to the Crown. He met Charlotte's gaze, for once without irascibility, instead assessing the situation. "You realize, of course, that what you have done cannot match the endless trouble we will receive for defying the Crown of Ferelden?" For a moment, Charlotte struggled to find polished words that would spirit the Knight-Commander's doubt away, but she realized there were none. "In a way, that's true," she replied finally, deciding to be straightforward. "But if you don't help us and Fereldens perish under the Blight, you will have dishonored not only our service, but the people you have sworn to protect. The mages will die with them, that is a fact." Thoughtfully, she added, "And you are under the Chantry's authority. You are not subject to Ferelden law, so technically you would not be aiding and abetting traitors." Greagoir scowled, knowing she was right.

With a heavy sigh, the elder Templar recited his oath. "Very well; I hereby pledge that the Circle of Magi of Ferelden will honor their treaty with the Grey Wardens and serve you in your quest to end the Blight. This, I so swear." Greagoir looked to Irving for dissension and was only mildly cross when he offered his own oath of allegiance. The Knight-Commander offered his hand after removing his gauntlet, which Charlotte shook as an enormous grin threatened to split across her face. Aiming for a more dignified response, she smiled benignly and thanked him, rolling up the scroll and putting it back in her belt.

Grunting, Greagoir inquired after their next steps. "Well," Charlotte replied, struggling to keep her tone bland, "We could actually use your help on that as well." She widened her eyes, the picture of innocence.

Greagoir seemed to nearly burst with incredulity; seeing this, Irving quietly chuckled. Still on the edge of a very bad mood, the Knight-Commander glared him into amused silence. His expression thunderous, Greagoir leaned imposingly across his desk and spoke in a voice heavy with self-control. "And what, Madam, might that be?"

* * *

Charlotte could have danced all the way to Denerim. They had secured their first treaty!

In the grand scheme of things, she understood it was little. They were vastly outnumbered and, even with the treaties in place, would need to make new Grey Wardens so the entire fate of the land did not rely solely upon her and Alistair, who were pitifully ignorant to begin with. The first thing they would have to do would be to find information on the Grey Wardens – everything and anything they could lay their hands on. Once she understood the extent of the trials before them, not to mention the details of what they actually had to do to end the Blight, she would turn her attention to strengthening their forces and subjecting volunteers or – if she must – newly conscripted recruits to the Joining. Having lived in throat-closing fear of Leliana, Zevran, Sten or Morrigan succumbing to the Taint, she realized that a Joining would be necessary – both to create new Grey Wardens and to have a way to save her companions if they were Tainted, which they had thus far been able to avoid with obsessive washing.

Charlotte felt a little heady at her lack of forethought these past few weeks. Though they had fought ragtag bands of Darkspawn, she had barely taken time to study their strengths and weaknesses, too desperate to find some adult who could help her bring a semblance of order to the madness she had been dropped in. Going toe to toe with the Knight-Commander had made her realize she could not rely on others to carry her through this, and she was frankly ashamed of herself for having wanted it in the first place. Alistair thought she was being too hard on herself.

"You're a good leader, Charlotte. You've got the instincts – that's what carried us this far. The devil's in the details and now that's what we've got to look at. But you're not alone."

She was much reassured by that fact. Alistair deferred to her training as a noble, which allowed her the diplomacy she would not have reached for on her own. Her mother had found her most incorrigible as a girl; the jewel of her father's eye and "_such _his child!" as her mother would often say when she was vexed beyond patience. Charlotte found being thrust into leadership both suited and alarmed her; while inwardly she desired to wail and lose her temper, her mother's relentless training had taken over after all.

It especially came in handy when she strained the already tenuous relationship between herself and the Knight-Commander by questioning his order to stuff Aneiren back into the dungeons. It was their second full day in the Circle and, following healing and some food, the young man was not quite so recovered as to be healthy, but he had a fresh perspective on his situation now that his mind was clear. He was immediately horrified at the suggestion, trembling in his robes at the thought of more unpredictably timed beatings and the pangs of an empty stomach gnawing away at itself.

"This mage," Greagoir replied tersely, "Was convicted of crimes against the Circle – unequivocally. In these dangerous times, he cannot be allowed to range the halls, potentially causing more harm than he has already."

Charlotte just barely kept herself from speaking out of turn. "Are you aware," she answered stiffly, doing her best to remember herself after the unbelievable strain of that last two days. "That he was severely, _severely _abused by his Templar guard, to the point where he was half-mad from pain and starvation when we discovered him?" This was said in front of First Enchanter Irving, a collection of the senior Templar officers and Senior Enchanters, and her own comrades, who glared in silent fury at the memory of Aneiren's injuries.

This seemed to genuinely discombobulate the Knight-Commander, whose intentions were not to punish but protect. "Could you better describe his condition?"

Charlotte smiled grimly, all too pleased to shame the Templars glaring at her from behind the Knight-Commander. "He was skin and bone, as he clearly still is, and covered in dirt and his own excrement. Though Wynne has healed him thoroughly, myself and my compatriots can attest that he was a quilt of bruises, with both fresh and old covering him from head to foot." Aneiren stood, shaking, restrained on each side by two Templars who wore the customary bucket-shaped helmets of their Order. Their eyes glittered disapprovingly from within, but they said nothing, awaiting their commander's reaction.

Greagoir was not pleased, torn between what he believed to be an accurate description – though, thankfully, the culprits responsible had perished in Uldred's onslaught, which lessened his worries considerably – and what he had decreed under Chantry law. His conviction was binding; Aneiren would be forced to await trial from the Grand Cleric. He doubted she would rule in his favor.

"I'm afraid," he said slowly, trying to choose his words with care. "That Chantry Law does not permit me to release him."

Quick as a flash, Charlotte grasped the hidden message and drew herself up, emitting as much commanding influence as she could muster. "Then I hereby Conscript Aneiren Surana into the Order of the Grey Wardens."

There was a general gasp among the Senior Enchanters; Wynne, who was among them, had scrutinized her shrewdly and then quirked a small smile of approval when Charlotte made the intelligent choice. Wynne saw a lot of potential in this earnest Grey Warden. She may have begun on the heels of panic and blood, but she was recovering admirably.

The Templars were most disapproving, but were forced to hold their peace, as the Knight-Commander bowed his head with no contestation of her claim. Aneiren, for his part, was too flabbergasted to make sense of it. He could not imagine life outside the Circle, or hardly believe his luck. He was free? Free of the Circle and the Chantry's clinging influence? It seemed too good to be true.

The only amendment offered was one Charlotte had seen coming. Still, it took all the power of will she possessed not to groan outwardly when the Knight-Commander made his request.

A Templar; what was she supposed to do with a bloody Templar? He could be a turncoat for the Chantry, giving up all their secrets and trying to hamper the mages in their party. Charlotte tried to be politic as she mentally composed her answer; she had to convey her meaning without actually saying the words. It occurred to her that she was stuck with the constant verbal maneuvering of politics, even as a Grey Warden, who were supposed to be immune. How unfortunate – and yet another thing Duncan had left her entirely unprepared for.

"I do not think it unreasonable at all, Knight-Commander and would be glad of a capable recruit. I only ask for someone you feel would mesh well with the Order. I would hate, for example, to take away a devout Believer of the Prophet from his sacred calling." She simpered adequately and the Knight-Commander got the message: no mage-haters.

A young man not much older than Aneiren was called forth for inspection. The Knight-Commander said his name was Jonathan Cullen and that he had so much promise it had been speculated he could rise to the rank of Knight-Commander himself one day. This distressed Charlotte, who worried genuinely for the loss of his prospects, but Cullen seemed to be in awe of her and the rest of them. He had been good friends with the young Templar who had been trapped in the magical cage and felt indebted to them for being responsible enough to do what was needed to get him out. Even though his comrade's release had not been immediate, their expedient work through the Circle had made quite an impression on the quietly ambitious Templar.

Charlotte welcomed him as a brother and tried not to cringe. He seemed well-meaning, and nothing could be done for it. She had to please the Knight-Commander – and by extension, the Chantry – if she was going to be able to stomp in and start making orders. Everyone paid something; these little concessions were like taxes. But she was going to have to watch how they piled up – the Wardens of Ferelden would not be subject to tyrants, especially small ones who had no right to deny them service. Still, more flies with honey than vinegar, as her mother always said.

"Then it is settled; if you don't mind, I'd like to speak with your quartermaster about armor and weapons. And we would be most grateful for some food." They had stayed well past her planned timeline and would no doubt be thin on rations. To her relief, Cullen took hold of that duty and went to the kitchens to get as much food as he could find. No doubt the staff there would be amenable to his influence.

The quartermaster was a balding young man who trembled at the very sight of them, unable to contain his own astonishment – rather than admiration – that they had done what they did. Charlotte purchased as much new armor as she could afford, particularly for Alistair who had been hit hard in this battle, as well as a new breastplate made from studded leather for herself. She traded the silverite armor she had been wearing before; it simply didn't suit her, being far too heavy and clamorous for her liking.

In a spirit of pique, Charlotte also purchased some light leather armor for Morrigan. Robes be damned; her entire look screamed APOSTATE and it would get them into undue trouble if she didn't learn to conform a bit. She could charm the armor and attach whatever she needed to make it work for transformations. Even if she wasn't going to be a Grey Warden, she was going to look the part, or Charlotte would hang her by her toes from the Circle ceiling.

What she could not pay for in gold, Charlotte traded for. Leliana surprised her with some considerable loot, which she offered with a shrug and a grin. Charlotte was briefly put out, but then realized where they would be without it and gave in. The quartermaster, for his part, was quite pleased with his haul. Alistair gently reminded her about lyrium.

"Morrigan could really use some, but Cullen will also need it. Remember what I told you?" His kind eyes were sad for the young Templar, who was probably already addicted.

Charlotte discovered that the quartmaster was amenable to dealing her some potion under the table, in addition to a small supply of lyrium dust. In a fit of greed, he revealed his stores to her, understanding what Cullen's recruitment meant in terms of her stock. Charlotte quietly purchased enough to make a substantial amount of potion, spending a great deal of her own coin, and pocketed it as discreetly as possible. Morrigan would have a hay-day with this load and would probably dance in an unseemly little ritual when she found out what Charlotte had brought her. Right up until she found out they had recruited a Templar.

Charlotte could already hear the screaming. She sighed.

As her pack was once again strapped – now strained to bursting with various needs and treasures – Cullen reappeared. He offered her the pack of food shyly, which impressed her with its heaviness, and shouldered his own pack, with sword and shield. He was handsome and diffident, much like Alistair, but she still forebore to trust him until he had proven himself worthy and not just a puppet of the Chantry. However, that did not mean she had to be unkind.

Aneiren joined them, still in shock, but slowly gaining a sense of excitement that he would be free. Aneiren was no fool and had made the best of a pig's ear of a situation, flourishing in his lessons as an apprentice, coveting the day he would become a Harrowed mage. But now the world was suddenly rife with previously unimagined opportunity. He hoped he would be able to rise to it, and use his power well. Shyly, he looked at Charlotte, who bestowed him a sweet smile that made him embarrassed. Too overwhelmed to return the gesture, he blushed and looked away.

A crowd had gathered to watch them go, mostly composed of equally disapproving and wonderstruck Templars as well as a few Senior Enchanters, who were a bag of mixed emotions to watch one of their best pupils leave the Circle. Knight-Commander Greagoir had tried to discourage the onlookers, but had given up when he realized it would be easier to simply let the Wardens leave and command his officers to return to their duties then. First Enchanter Irving had begun to assemble a party that would leave for Redcliffe the following day, after they had some time to sort out how many and which Templars would go with them. Charlotte had quietly asked him to bring some talented healers and he had promised to do his best. She hoped to recruit away from the steely gaze of the Knight-Commander and his desire to impose Templars, especially now that he had so many at his disposal.

The day after Charlotte and her party had cleared out the Circle, a band of Templars had arrived from Redcliffe, ready to exact the Rite of Annulment. They had received one of the Knight-Commander's carrier pigeons, sent in the desperate hope that some of their neighbors close to home would be able to aid them. Some of the Templars were disappointed, if not outright dismayed, to discover they were no longer needed – at least not for the enjoyable act of killing mages. To Charlotte's happy surprise, one of the sympathetic among them was Ser Bryant, the commanding officer of the Lothering chantry. Apparently, his men had dashed for Redcliffe following the destruction of Lothering, hoping to find refuge there. Charlotte was shaken to hear that Lothering had already been lost, but glad to see him among his surly brethren; Ser Bryant was obviously exhausted, but pleased to be of service, and please that Charlotte and her comrades were not dead. Following a short reunion, Knight-Commander Greagoir put the men to good use, dispersing them throughout the tower for guard and clearing duties, which involved both physical cleaning – much aided by the silently complaisant Tranquil – and magical cleansing in order to prevent tears in the Veil. All the blood mages were dead, but their defiance had left a smear of foul energy on Kinloch Hold. Between the efforts of Templars and Senior mages, who were the only ones trusted to use magic at this time, they were making steady progress. A few demons had alarmed and startled them, but the Templars were well-trained and did their duty. There had been no casualties thus far.

One mage from the resistance remained; Ryia, the subordinate to Uldred. Charlotte had witnessed her arrogance as she was questioned – which she witnessed along with Aneiren's hearing this morning – and had thoroughly enjoyed her descent into the dungeons.

"You shouldn't take pleasure in such things," hissed Leliana, ripe with righteous disapproval. "She must face judgment only from the Maker, who will determine the payment for her crimes."

Charlotte nodded, but did not reply, secretly feeling that whatever the Maker had in store for her was fine, but she nonetheless took satisfaction in knowing that the foul woman would suffer greatly in the dungeons below and eventually at the hands of the Grand Cleric in Denerim. If she wasn't eaten by darkspawn on her way to the city. Justice has many faces, after all.

Charlotte hoped with all her being Irving would bring her some decent healers. She would conscript them if necessary – as much as she hated doing it, knowing how it had affected her and what painful death it could bring, the more she chewed on the staggering task before them, the more she realized that the recruitment of volunteers could not be her only choice.

Kester was waiting; the sun was high above them, with a blustery wind that blew off the cool waters of Lake Calenhad. Once ensconced in the swaying boat, Charlotte could feel herself beginning to sweat under her heavy linens, made from coarse cotton that she was able to purchase in Ostagar. The leggings were castoffs of an elven Warden who had claimed to have no need of them, but the tunic was made for a man and therefore only kept in place with the help of her leather belt. Her boots, fortunately, were her own, but were made well and heavy to withstand many conditions. The result was that her feet perspired almost immediately; she missed the cooler summer temperatures enjoyed in Highever, where a refreshing breeze blew off the Waking Sea and she could spend the hotter part of the day in the shaded stone rooms of her family's castle. Thinking of those rooms and what had once been within them, precious treasures that could never be replaced, her heart twisted uncomfortably. She no longer hoped after Fergus, who surely must be dead, whether by the darkspawn or some other unfortunate fate. It made her melancholy to think of the love and joy lost, all because that monster wanted more power. Suddenly, she was too tired to feel her usual incandescent rage when thinking of Arl Howe.

The others piled in, Cullen and Alistair uncertain and worried about their weight. Leliana and Zevran were relieved, ready to be gone from this oppressive, watchful place. It was not until Kester said something that they took notice of Aneiren.

The mage was unable to cross the threshold of the tower doors. Cast in the elaborate Tevinter design, molded from iron and fine bronze, they stood wide open to a world never before experienced by the elf. With eyes like saucers, he stood just inside the shadow of the Tower, staring up at something he could not remember having seen before: a blue sky.

Charlotte saw how pale he was and leapt from the boat, shame-faced for not having realized how he might react. "Aneiren?" Charlotte approached him slowly; people did funny things when under strain. She didn't want to startle him.

"It's so… big," he whispered, his face very white. Aneiren dropped his little pack to the floor and swayed, unsteady on his feet. Suddenly, there were hands everywhere, trying to bring him up, worried about him. Aneiren's vision blurred; he registered no faces, only the warm press of careful hands as they brought him back to a standing position and led him gingerly towards the boat. Zevran thoughtfully retrieved his pack.

The world, so much more vast than he had been able to envision on his own, spun in slow, dizzying circles. Aneiren wanted to appreciate it, to admire its beauty, but it was so much to take in and his mind had to find a way to protect itself. Thankfully, he didn't faint, but he was weak and frightened. Cullen tried to take charge of him, but the elf instinctively shrank away, fearful of further assault. Cullen took issue with this, but had heard of the malignant treatment the mage had to endure, and could not entirely blame him. Instead, Leliana took over, soothing Aneiren with her musical voice and trying to describe the sights to him in such a way that they would not be so disagreeable.

Kester was all too glad to get the loony elf out of his boat. He didn't need anyone dying or going mad on a row trip to the Circle; it would give him a bad name. When they disgorged from his little quay, Aneiren staggered along, carried with the help of Alistair and Zevran, who were at least familiar to him in a good way. Charlotte grabbed his pack and carried it with her own, surprising Cullen, who thought it a rather heavy load for someone so small. Perhaps it had something to do with being a Grey Warden.

Charlotte wished they had not camped quite so far from the shore; carrying Aneiren there was onerous and long. Once arrived, Alistair and Zevran, both sweating from the heat, dropped him with somewhat haphazard care onto a bedroll that Leliana hastily laid out for them from her tent. Sten greeted them stoically, a happy Mastodon barking at his side. On the edge of camp, Morrigan stirred something in a pot and, if Charlotte was not mistaken, bestowed them with a critical glare.

"You have brought more members to our mission. That is well." Sten looked over the scrawny elf mage and the strapping human warrior, nodding his head with mild approval. "I hope you have brought more rations, we are currently unable to accommodate our original numbers, much less additions."

Charlotte waved the food pack, a little breathless from carrying that, plus both her and Aneiren's personal belongings. "Indeed we have, Sten. I'd like a report from you, but just let me settle in and make sure Aneiren is looked after first."

The Qunari indicated his agreement and went back to his tent, where he had been attempting to improve his weapon with oiling and a sharpening belt. In a burst of inspiration, Leliana chased after him, trying to show him the sword they had won from their battle with the great demon in the Tower, which they had discovered was an ancient weapon named "Yusaris". He seemed pleased by it.

Mastodon was relieved to see his mistress and danced in a happy circle, barking urgently for her attention. Equally delighted to be reunited, Charlotte descended on him with happy ear-rubs and many murmurings of praise for his good work while she was gone.

"I can see all the horses are still alive, did you have much trouble?" Mastodon barked once in guileless joy and Charlotte laughed, glad he'd enjoyed himself. "Good boy, are you hungry? I have something for you." Charlotte reached into her pack and pulled out a large hambone, which Cullen had thoughtfully brought for soup-making, but which she had decided should be used instead to reward her faithful Mabari. With great solemnity, Mastodon accepted it, recognizing it for the payment that it was and he trotted off to show it to his new good friend. The towering pack member was most approving of Mastodon's bounty; "It is a fine, just reward," Sten agreed seriously. "I know you will use it well." Mastodon stole off to enjoy his prize, head held unusually high.

Cullen was wandering around, taking the camp in, when Morrigan approached them and he felt her glimmering power. "An apostate!" Cullen fell back into a defensive stance, choking on the words as his wide-eyed shock took in all that was Morrigan. The female mage sneered, "Be still, Templar, or I shall deal with you as my mother taught me. None of your brethren who have faced the might of Flemeth survived." Cullen's eyes bulged.

"That is enough," Charlotte ordered sharply, stepping between them. The look she gave Morrigan was especially harsh; knowing that Morrigan had no compunction doing her worst, she was more worried for Cullen's safety than hers. "Recruit Cullen," Charlotte barked to get his attention; the Templar looked at her with a great deal of reluctance. "Morrigan is an ally of the Grey Wardens. You will not attempt to Smite her or monitor her in any way. If you interfere with her, it will be considered treasonous behavior to the order."

Cullen hesitated, "But-"

Alistair stepped in and put himself close to Cullen's face just as Charlotte flushed with anger, "In this, we are unequivocal. If you cannot abide by it, then you are not suited to travel with us. The choice is yours." Alistair's voice became colored with unyielding authority; he stared Cullen down until the Templar painstakingly raised himself back into a normal stance. The young Templar was most perturbed and slid away to sit by his pack and weapons, clearly battling with himself. Charlotte decided to give him – and herself – some time before they spoke again. He would need to be coaxed.

Aneiren was beginning to recover, but was still weak and shaken. Morrigan had been brewing a fine vegetable broth with their remaining rations and brought some over with a gibe, lest anyone mistake her actions for kindness. "Twas a foolish notion," she disparaged, "To bring such a weak mage into our party. He will make a handsome sacrifice to the darkspawn."

"Morrigan!" Charlotte nearly spat out her soup, scandalized by the witch's hostile insensitivity. Morrigan merely shrugged, unrepentant. Aneiren tried not to let her words – or her astonishingly yellow eyes - frighten him. He also tried to control his shock at the sight of Sten, as he had never seen a Qunari, and thought him daunting at the very least. Considering that, as well as the great sword Yusaris at his side, he didn't want to be seen to do anything that would antagonize him.

"I'm better now, Warden-Commander," he promised. Though his complexion was still sallow, he made a brave attempt at smiling and did his best to eat his broth under his own power. Once he had consumed a good portion of the warm liquid, he felt much better, and some of the color crept back into his face. He already liked Charlotte; he could sense the good in her. Everyone else seemed equally good-natured and gathered round, with the exception of Cullen, who hovered awkwardly on the edges. Each of them tried to make friendly conversation with him. They were all out of their element, never having encountered someone who had not been outside before.

"What are you experiencing?" Charlotte inquired with concern, her voice gentle.

Aneiren laughed, still quivery. "Dizziness, and lots of it. I feel as if I could fall into the sky with no ceiling above me. It's more beautiful than I imagined, but it terrifies me with its sheer size. And the light is blinding." Never one to shrink from a challenge, Aneiren rallied, but in truth he wondered if he would ever adjust to such an enormous world being available to him. He wasn't certain his senses could bear it.

It was also too warm; his robes felt heavy and thick outside the shade of stone. The warmth from the broth which had been so welcome began to settle throughout his body, making him uncomfortable.

"We'll have to get you some armor," Charlotte declared, popping a bit of bread into her mouth. "You won't stand a chance otherwise."

She said this with such casualty it shocked him; an elf, and a mage, wearing armor? What in the Maker's name was she thinking?

Before Charlotte could explore this idea further, Sten insisted on her audience. "I really should update the little warden on our situation. Also, the larger warden may want to attend." Alistair looked longingly at his bread, but set it dutifully aside, where Leliana promised she would protect it from greedy usurpers.

"What is it, Sten?" Charlotte brushed her hands of crumbs and tried to pay attention. She was still starving.

The Qunari was serious, but not grave. "There was a Darkspawn band of moderate size that attempted to attack last night, near the village. The humans were sent into a panic, but with my and the dog's help, as well as some discreet spell-casting from the apostate, we were able to lure them away and kill them. They also fought amongst themselves like Tal-Vishoth. The horses were protected by the apostate's shield spells. What took place in the hold of the _Saarebas?" _

This was alarming; the darkspawn were moving this far north? Charlotte supposed that was not unheard of – they had encountered a small band at the cusp of Lake Calenhad, where the road forked into Gherlen's Pass - but it was certainly quick, considering their loss at Ostagar was only a little over a month ago. It suggested organization she had not thought them capable of and it worried her. She could see Alistair felt the same.

"Hold on – how many would you say there were?"

Sten shrugged, "Eight or ten, at most." That was still significant. Oh, how she wished she knew more about the darkspawn!

In a bid to get her and Alistair some time alone to discuss it, she quickly gave a perfunctory report of the events they experienced in the Circle. Sten was not displeased with her decisions and agreed heartily that they should recruit a healer, if not more than one. Once satisfied, the Qunari made for his tent to continue oiling and cleaning his armor and weaponry. Alistair and Charlotte stole aside, asking the same question.

"Is the incursion moving north or are these just stragglers?" Alistair looked nervously to her for answers. She was equally unsure.

"It sounds more and more like they might be readying themselves to take over. Lothering is gone and eight or ten darkspawn is not a small number – I'm surprised that Sten and Morrigan were able to fight them off."

Alistair nodded impatiently, "I'll have to ask them how they managed it, _after_ I've decided whether we need to evacuate Redcliffe and soil our drawers."

That was entirely unhelpful; Charlotte called Morrigan over, trying to make some sense of it. "How did you kill those darkspawn?" she demanded the moment the witch was within hearing distance.

"Twas simple enough," Morrigan replied easily, preening under their skeptical gazes. "I cast a great deal of electricity and fire. Carefully aimed, it killed many of them instantly. Sten did his part, of course. And the mongrel was… helpful."

Charlotte was worried for Mastodon; would he be effected by the Taint? She would have to watch over him. Mabaris were famously hardy, but if necessary she would find a way to protect him with a Joining. Maybe Morrigan and Aneiren could figure out how to do it from her and Alistair's Warden Oaths, which contained the potion they drank at their ceremonies. Hopefully, it wouldn't be overly complicated.

"Thank you," Charlotte dismissed her and Morrigan swanned away, unconcerned. Charlotte thought quickly.

"There's nothing for it – we _need _information." Charlotte thought of the library at Highever, with so many useful tomes, and ground her teeth in vexation. "Where do the Wardens keep their records, Alistair?"

"In the Warden Compound at Denerim," he told her, growing thoughtful and trying to keep a clear head. "Duncan had most of the important stuff in his personal quarters, which had an attached office. The Wardens also had a library, which I visited on occasion, but I never found anything revealing about the secrets Duncan was trying to keep. He wouldn't tell me much about the Archdemon, for example, or how to perform a Joining. He said I would learn all that later." The last part made Alistair sheepish, knowing it would displease her and also knowing she was justified.

"Where is the Compound in relation to the Palace?" Charlotte asked, calculating their odds. Alistair shifted on his feet, unhappy.

"It's attached to it."

That was bad news. Surely it was locked down and under heavy guard by now. How could they infiltrate it? Would it even be possible?

The sun burned hotly on high, glaring down at them like a one-eyed witch. They needed to move out soon and get back to Redcliffe in time to help Teagan and the group of Circle mages.

"Let's think about it," she told Alistair quietly. Looking at Aneiren still sprawled on Leliana's bedroll, she added, "Once everyone has gathered their energy again, let us move out and go to Redcliffe. The sooner we can get Bann Teagan's help to Denerim, the better."

* * *

The day broke sunny, with light peeking flirtatiously through curtains, giggling as it reached in tickling fingers to wake the slumbering nobles of Denerim. A Landsmeet had been demanded, but not delivered since Loghain spoke to its members after the defeat at Ostagar. Civil war was brewing, but people held back, torn between political and personal loyalties and fear of Loghain's army. Several key members of the Landsmeet had been lost at Ostagar – Arl Bryland, whose eldest son Auden would have to be declared the new Arl of South Reach; Arl Urien, who surprised everyone by going and then disappointed them by dying, leaving his deplorable son, Vaughan, to take his place; Arl Wulffe's eldest and heir, Evrain; and Bann Loren, lord of Dane's March, an expansive holding that began on the shores of the River Dane. Bryce and Eleanor Cousland, secondary only to the King, had also been lost. In fact, many were whispering now of words like '_murder' _and _'false accusations'_; had it really been necessary to kill the son's wife and her little boy? The idea that one of their own could be so brutally removed as opposition caused a great stir among the nobles left behind, raising a discontented chattering that grew in volume the longer Loghain put them off. It did not help that Arl Rendon Howe was now known to be staying in Denerim Palace, or that Anora had not been seen or heard from by anyone since King's Cailan's funeral, which had been held with no body to burn on the pyre. Any wife would go into an appropriate month of mourning, especially under such terrible circumstances, but a Queen – surely she must maintain a public face?

Furthermore, Fergus Cousland was deemed dead at Ostagar, and his sister, Charlotte Cousland, was nowhere to be found. She was presumed killed at the estate of Highever, along with her parents. Also killed in the massacre at Highever were Bann Loren's wife and only son, leaving no heir to inherit the holding of Dane's March. While people fidgeted and wrung their hands over the looming civil war, others plotted plans of seizure and marriage, awaiting their opportunity to fill the holes as they saw fit.

Loghain had promised them a second Landsmeet – the first having been held in accordance with the season, by King Cailan before the march on Ostagar – but had produced a veritable legion of excuses to pardon himself from the burden ever since. The Queen was not well; the Grey Wardens were traitors and must be hunted for their behavior which killed the last surviving descendant of Calenhad Theirin; the armies must be buffed and trained to fight the increasing darkspawn threat; Loghain was attempting to contact Arl Eamon Guerrin, also the Crown's Chancellor, so that he may present himself for the next Landsmeet and had yet to hear from the man. Several impatient Banns had offered the assistance of their own couriers, hoping it might spur the Regent into action, but had been rudely denied without even the courtesy of an audience at the Palace. Clearly, Teyrn Loghain was stalling, and it bode ill of his intentions.

Others more arrogant than their counterparts simply assumed him too barbaric and common to match to the task. After all, he was nothing but a trumped up peasant who had managed, by some miracle, to glean the favor of King Maric all those years ago. Perhaps his ambitions had finally overstretched him and he was simply too panicked and stupid to face them. This camp of believers was small, but devout, and looked forward to the opportunity to publicly humiliate him.

As the sun rose higher, servants roused their houses into working order. Friendly little waves were exchanged over fences and across crowded market streets, as people emptied chamber pots and bought supplies for the coming day. Smells of warm bread wafted out of bakeries, with people crowding around, waiting for their goods. Men barked with laughter and women spoke in low voices, occasionally turning to scold a child who had danced too far out into the street or spilled goods they had been sent to purchase for their mothers.

A few horses whinnied through the square, pulling small carts to stalls and storefronts. Guards milled around the edges, their eyes hooded with suspicion and the occasional gleam as a pretty woman passed them by. The Alienage doors were closed again today; they had been locked for a long time now. The stink was terrible as usual, and people hurried past the gates, their noses wrinkled. As hawkers cried their wares, flashing bright banners of silk and waving tantalizing bundles of dried spices, priests sang parts of the Chant of Light in front of the Grand Cathedral, occasionally capturing the attention or respectful nod of hurried passerby. A woman squeezing past to reach the baker heard Master Wade, the best armorer in Denerim, cursing from his window as he threw another fit at his assistant, poor old Herren, without whom Master Wade could not function.

The door to the South Reach estate gardens opened and Auden stepped out, trying to absorb some energy from the rising sun. Since his father had died, he had vacillated between numb grief and horror, having been unprepared for the loss. Habren had nearly suffered a stroke; she was actually submitting to the rituals of being in mourning, too sick with shock and dismay to be seen in public. This was really saying something for her, considering. He was sure she would want to take solace in the charms of the Market, however, after she had some time to collect herself.

His little brothers concerned him much more; Cai and Otuel had been devastated, both far too little to lose their father before they were men. Cai was 11 and Otuel only 8. They had done their best to bear it with courage, but having lost their mother to Otuel's birthing all those years ago, Father was the only parent they had ever known. And now he was gone.

Auden hoped that one of them would imprint on a Mabari puppy. A fine bitch belonging to Arl Wulffe had recently weaned several pups and invited Auden to bring the boys along to see them, maybe find them a new playmate to help them through this difficult time. Wulffe himself was also in mourning; his eldest had perished at Ostagar, leaving behind his second son, Rufier, to take his place. Auden could not imagine how difficult that must be, to have lived in the shadow of your older brother, assuming a different fate, only to be thrust into his position. Auden knew Wulffe was a good man who wouldn't see him as a disappointing replacement, but felt compassion for them both nonetheless.

Across the Drakon River, Vaughan was hardly able to contain his glee. A pile of gold winked prettily on his desk – the fruits of his labors and those of his trusty Tevinter friends. Who knew elves could be so valuable? Not only did their pretty elven whores provide flesh for him to plunder, but flesh for him to sell, as well. He would even go so far as to say they were better than horses – they bred like rabbits, so there was plenty of them to go around; no one cared if you sold them; and, well….you couldn't fuck a horse.

And who knew that old snake Howe would be such a friend to him? It was hard to believe; that stuffy little ass-kisser turned out to be rather brilliant. Vaughan felt exceedingly pleased with himself for trusting him. It was the best decision he had ever made.

Howe couldn't have agreed more; just a few more weeks and the coffers in Amaranthine would be bursting. He was being careful not to move too many elves out at one time; he didn't want them to start a riot, in case they caught on. Better to have those savages be eager and desperate, so grateful for the offer of work in a faraway land that they wouldn't question the significant diminishing of their numbers. Slowly, boat by boat, they would be taken away and Howe would become the richest man in the Kingdom. Finally, he would have the beginnings of what he deserved.

As she increasingly lost her grasp on the Crown, Anora grew more desperate. Father was so moody and secretive, even her carefully planted spies were rousing his suspicions. She had deterred them for a while, wanting him to grow complacent again, or at least as complacent as he would ever be. She had thus far been unable to convince him to hold the Landsmeet, hearing nothing but scoffs about "greedy nobles" and their inability to grasp the "importance of our mission." When questioned on what that mission was, Loghain grew hard-faced, talking about "rapacious" Orlesians and "the foreign threat." For the first time in her life, Anora was frightened and unsure what to do.

Loghain wasn't off much better; the Crows had reported that their assassin, along with his entire cell, had gone missing, which meant he had failed in his mission and the Grey Wardens were still at large. Did they truly know of what he did to Cailan, or were they bluffing? Would anyone believe them? And what had happened to Arl Eamon? No word had come from Redcliffe and Loghain loathed to send a courier lest it cast suspicion on him – or rather, more suspicion than was already brewing. He had no idea what Eamon knew or what had happened and it made him ill at ease. Loghian wanted to move on the Orlesians, but he couldn't do that without the Landsmeet's support. As much as he disdained the nobles of the Landsmeet, he was not so imprudent as to bypass them completely – it would cause a civil war. No, that simply wouldn't do. The Orlesian sympathizers among them would seize the opportunity to knife him in the back and then who would protect the people of Ferelden? He had to gather enough support, to find reasons to make them stand with him, in order to get what he ultimately wanted: permission to march on the Empress and end this once and for all. As for the Grey Wardens, he simply wouldn't allow them access to the city. All of Maric's Shield and members of the City Guard had been put on high alert to kill them on sight if they resisted arrest; posters of the Wardens' faces had been produced to post all over Denerim's walls. Loghain was being very careful to keep the Cousland girl's name out of it; let her be an unnamed beast that no one cared to defend. Eamon was probably dead and good riddance. Nothing - no one - would get in his way.

The Market Square calmed somewhat; people went back to their homes and places of work to continue the labors of the day. Washing, spinning, wood-carving, feeding children – all these would continue as if nothing had happened. The shadows in the alleys may have seemed longer and more menacing to some, but others lived on in ignorance of such things, within the confines of their wattle and daub. They worried more about the local competition for business, or where their children might apprentice in the coming year. They worried about growing sick and being unable to work, or not having enough silvers that month to pay a little tithe to the Chantry to go towards the blessing of a profitable season. They knew nothing of the sweating nobles in their padded chairs as they wondered after the fates of their fortunes and the state of their power. These people wound the streets with more concrete concerns on their mind, and so it escaped them when a stranger entered their midst. Their shoulders brushed past him without so much as a second glance, the crush of flowing humanity enveloping him far more effectively than the plain, hooded cloak he wore, gifting him with a blessed breath of anonymity.

The man wound his way through the human river, eyes raking around the square for any sign of a threat. Slowly, he passed the Grand Cathedral, his heart burning with fury at their blatant, smug-faced hypocrisy. Across the square stood the Palace, tall and proud in the mid-morning sun. He made toward it with the deliberateness of a stalking predator, the noises and colors of the Market melting away behind him.

Two guards were exiting the gates, their arms full of papers. One carried what looked like paste and a brush. As the man drew closer, he pulled his hood lower, sliding against the wall with a hunch and peering at them out of the corner of his eye.

The guard bearing the bigger burden of fliers took notice of him and stopped, scowling. "Oy, beggar, move along. Take your empty pockets to the Chantry and seek your pity there." In response, the man cowered, making as if to slowly hobble away. Satisfied, the guard turned to join his comrade, only to face a gust of wind. In the distance, beautiful silks of all colors fluttered like pennants, and a few frantic traders ran to keep some of their lighter merchandise from being liberated to the sky.

The guard bearing the fliers cursed as many flew from his arms. Too distracted to notice the "beggar" had not departed, he bent to retrieve some of them, before giving up. "The best kind of advertising, eh?" He and the other guard barked with piggish laughter, walking off towards the other side of the square, the noise of their amusement fading into the distance.

The man had made as if to try and sneak through the gate, but then saw one of the fliers and stopped. On it was a crude likeness that jolted him; slowly, he bent to retrieve the paper. No; it could not be. But the way she looked… it was so like her. He realized his throat had gone dry and his hand was shaking. If there was even a chance… making his decision, he set off in the opposite direction, his boot driving some of the pages into the muddy puddles littering the square. He wove, faster than before, pushing his way past people without caution or care. It was because of this that he bumped into someone, knocking them to the ground and ripping his hood away. Ferociously, he snarled, rearing back and tugging it over him to protect his identity. As people glared and shouted about rude behavior, he tore off, a piece of paper clutched in his hand. And so he did not hear the cry of surprise and hope uttered by the man he had pushed over, the steward of Highever's Denerim Estate, who was certain he had just seen Fergus Cousland.

* * *

_A/N: For the title, the Hooded Man is based on "The Third Man," with Joseph Cotten and Public Enemy is a reference to the classic film by the same title._

_Charlotte is inexperienced and went through a great shock (a number of them, really). After giving it some thought, I realized she and Alistair would probably be too naïve to grasp the seriousness of their situation without more experienced leadership to guide them. Alistair's used to taking orders and Charlotte was never expecting to be more than some nobleman's wife – even if he were one of the noblest in the Kingdom. Both of them are young, and so I felt it only stands to reason that they would scrabble for some semblance of a guiding authority before accepting their duty with somewhat mature resignation. I also believe that, Charlotte being the passionate person that she is, will now commit herself fully to their mission, rather than holding back because of her grief or resentment of what Duncan did. That was always something I found annoying in the game – like Duncan was some benevolent leader who did what was best. WHAT?! He could have easily saved the Cousland Warden without conscripting them and instead he chose to press his own advantage. _

_Further, it stands to reason that not all the Templars in Lothering perished against the darkspawn. Some would have had the sense to lead people out of the village, even if it was only a small portion of the refugees there. Templars are dutiful, but not stupid. Besides, they're more useful alive to me than dead!_

_Finally, I dithered over whether to give Charlotte lyrium, and concluded that the Chantry cannot possibly have the tight hold it believes it does. In times of crisis and war, medieval soldiers were most unscrupulous. I don't doubt that the quartermaster, who might not be very pleased with his post to begin with considering Thedosian views on mages outside the Tevinter Imperium, would do what he felt was in his own best interest when presented with the opportunity. Besides, they really do need the lyrium!_

_As always, I look forward to your reviews. I want to thank clafount, iKatnissStarkWestoftheFlock, momongiri, Michelle-Ann85, and Phthalo for their kind feedback and excellent points. I always enjoy other people's perspectives on this vast and interesting universe. You all have a lot to teach me. _


	24. Author's Note

**NEW Update: *10/6/2013 **

Hi everyone! I wasn't sure people would check my profile and I wanted to make sure to let people know the next chapter of _The Rose's Thorn _will come between the 13th and the 20th. I've been working longer hours for my job and also recently got engaged, so to say things have been 'busy' is a bit of an understatement! However, I wanted to make sure you all knew that another installment is coming and that its delay is also due to me just pausing to make sure I'm maintaining all my plot points and not just bounding forward without good flow and continuity. Thank you again for reading my story and for sending such helpful thoughts and reviews. I look forward to hearing what you have to say about the next events in _The Rose's Thorn _:)


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